The other day, as the rest of the U.S. was experiencing record lows brought on by the Polar Vortex that Al Gore’s beclouded crystal ball didn’t see coming, I was soaking up the eighty-three degree rays in Miami at my gated-community’s swank pool. Boo-yah. That’s why we endure hurricanes folks, for the glorious winter weather.
Fortunately for me, no one was at the cement pond when I rocked up so I got the best chaise in the best place. So far … so good.
After I got my old, crippled ass into a perfect position for a maximum tan I reached into my backpack and pulled out a scratchpad to write on and grabbed one of my beautiful cigars to roast while relaxing in paradise. Ah, the simple things.
As I was enjoying the vitamin D infusion, scribbling down the last bits and pieces for my forthcoming tome on hunting, and wailing on a Robusto, I heard the gate creek open to our pool’s entrance. Looking up, I saw two hefty college mamas and one skinny hipster doofus. You know what I mean when I say hipster doofus don’t you? Picture a twenty-something male who wears Buddy Holly glasses, a plunging Brandy Melville tee shirt, a fedora, skinny jeans and who slinks when he walks. As I sized up this shabby trinity I thought, “Crap, there goes my heretofore perfect, humanless sanctuary of sun and solace”. That’s what I get for not having my own pool.
As this crew ambled about looking for a place to park their party, I pulled my Smith shades down and commenced to blowing billowing clouds of smoke from my cigar to secure at least a hundred foot perimeter around me so I wasn’t forced to overhear just how tedious their life is.
After, creating a cloud so massive it looked as if I had just elected a pope, one of the unbathed, shabby and bulbous young ladies made her way over to me and told me, not asked me, to extinguish my exquisite cigar because it “offends” her; to which I said, “Not a chance, sister.”
Now, for clarification, I wasn’t breaking any anti-pool smoking rules, as our community doesn’t have a “No cigar” edict, yet. In addition, I own a home in this community, pay the HOA fees and reserve the right to do whatever the heck I want to do within the rule of law and the Ten Commandments, whether some stringy-haired chick who swims in an XXX-Large tee-shirt likes it or not. Bugger off, Broomhilda.
But that wasn’t good enough for this cabal. They wanted me to bow to their sensibilities. Yep, my liberties, my pleasures, my beliefs were to be at the mercy of their approval. Call me a profiler, but I seriously doubt they were Libertarians. They seemed a tad too fascistically fastidious to vote for Rand.
Now, I could have told them that their three rolls of blubber that you could hide small toys in were offensive to me. Or I could have ripped into the hipster wearing skinny jeans and a woman’s shirt with bangles, informing him it all was appalling to my testosterone fog — but I didn’t.
To me, broadly speaking, if I don’t have to pay for it or applaud it, to each his bloody own. And therein lies the difference between Progs and liberty-minded folks: the former are only cool with you doing whatever you want to do as long as it’s something they’ve approved.
Oh, by the way, the offended trio didn’t even live in our community, but dag-nabbit, they were going to enforce their ways upon me.