~a column by Colleen O’Brien
Things I wonder about contrarians – those who say “no” immediately, no matter what you ask them, and those who are negative about people that if they had any brains would not denigrate (revered war heroes, women who aren’t beautiful, overweight people, especially if they themselves, the contrarians, are overweight).
Why would anyone who blatantly aspires to friendship with Vladamir Putin of Russia accuse his political rival Kamala Harris of being a Communist? Every time he does it, I wonder – wouldn’t it make more sense to call himself a Commie? Does this confuse others as much as it confuses me?
Why doesn’t he rein in his ill-named “patriots” from attacking Jews when Netanyahu is one of his favorite despots?
Why would anyone who prefers interrupting everyone who happens to be talking want to have his microphone turned off during debates when the other person is talking? Isn’t he missing the great opportunities to interrupt and talk-over? Or is he simply being contrary? Or is he slipping? Tired of himself?
Why does a man who thinks he’s better-looking than his female opposition (do many men dwell on this?) still wear such an unbecoming haircut? With all that money, does he do his own hair? Has anyone taken credit for being his hairdresser? His tailor? His golf duds go-to?
[I understand that because I’m a liberal, I’m being politically unrefined if I make fun of other people’s looks, but the man does call attention to his hair, his size, his hands, and he does bully others about these human problem areas. So, why can’t I in return? And he’s the only one that stirs my ire. Do I think it’s beneath me, good little lib that I am, to be catty? Someone of my ilk , or a voice in my head, reminds me to play nice, because it makes me similar to him in the bullying aspect, and it probably eggs him on to worse bad-taste name calling. It’s a mild dilemma
[The impulse is almost irresistible, however, as I’ve demonstrated by my own falls from grace in other columns. Being aware of people who put down everything and everybody does rouse the tit-for-tat worm in my amygdala; ie, it makes my dark side kick in. It’s often difficult to be the good person I think I am, where I should be stimulated by my empathy for a man who is so obviously confused about himself. Bad childhood? Kidding at all times and thinking he’s funny? Speaking before he thinks? Suffering from “thought disorder”? Schizophrenia? Mania? Distemper? Poor sleeping habits? Born crabby?
[Whatever becomes of him and whatever I think of him, he will take up a lot of space in the history books – The Guardian newspaper from Manchester in England wrote that 4,500 [this is not a typo] books had been written about him by the end of his administration.
[Wikipedia listed 132 titles but with the caveat that they were counting only famous authors, nothing self-published, no fiction.
[Hmm: does one write about a prevaricator and not confuse the reader regarding what’s true and what’s a fib? Do they have to make sure the thousands of false utterances are printed in red ink? Or Italics? Bold would be the most fitting?]
We think we’re sick of him now: In years to come, his character will show up in thrillers, murder mysteries, Marvel comics, children’s story books, coloring books for first graders, history tomes for high schoolers and college students; encyclopedias, quote books and crossword puzzles; and then they will bring him out in film. With any decency, no movies adapted from romance novels, no romcoms. [This is just my amygdala musing meanfully.]
