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I have long presumed that when a peace activist breaks his leg, his first stop, mandatorily, is his psychiatrist’s office.
Within minutes, the shrink with the scraggly hair, foggy glasses, barely noticeable body odor and funny German accent, will convince the peace activist that if he will just tune in to KPFK when he gets home, the pain and the blood wracking his leg will vanish.
Everything works by magic in a peace activist’s child-like universe.
Dial 90.7, and by golly whiz, Murgatroyd, you won’t even need a splint, much less a surgeon. Only sensible Republicans patronize surgeons.
This must be how angry peace activists get through their miserable days. They clasp hands with their misguided brethren, the me-too global-warming groupies. Together they hitch a ride on the multiplying (not vanishing) polar bears, and off they ride into a sinkhole.
A Nice Lady
Based on the deliberate, dulcet tones of her voice and her appearance, I have not a doubt that Susan Anderson, who spoke at last night’s meeting of the Democratic Club, is a sweet lady in spite of identifying herself as a peace activist.
I always think of peace activists when I take one of our grandchildren to a pet store. We stroll over to the teeny-weeny baby kitten display. Just born. Aren’t they cute? We coo. They coo back. When the itsy-bitsy kitties shut their eyes, their troubles gurgle down the drain. All gone. Never to return.
This, I believe, is the mindset of peace activists when they go to bed each night. They smack their lips kissing their favorite “I Support the Troops” bumper sticker, lie back on a plump pillow, draw the shutters on their eyes, and fly off on a magic carpet to a pacific land where bad guys with guns have been successfully killed off by sugary-talking peace activists.
Where Will Terrorists Go? To Santa Barbara?
On pages 3, 4 and 9 of the Los Angeles Times this morning, there are stories of Muslim bad guys, which may be superfluous, bombing decent people across the Middle East. You will find the same stories about the same murderous mugs in tomorrow’s edition and the next day.
I do not understand how Ms. Anderson and her friends supposedly reason their otherwise normal minds through this bramble bush.
Do you trust yourself to be driving on the same highway with people capable of such outlandish think?
I can see the Caltrans sign man now:
“This Lane for Martians Only.”
Peace activists tell us, with a straight face, that if we bring the troops home in time for dinner, by golly whiz, Murgatroyd, gas will return to 28 cents a gallon and the bad guys of the world will lay down their arms because President Bush will have taken the fun out of terrorism by calling his boys and girls back to home base.
How can a grownup take these people seriously?
What do these people smoke? Or drink?
