Afew weeks ago, I was driving down the street, minding my own business, when a cyclist shouted something at me. It was either “Children’s books should reflect the full spectrum of humanity” or “Your brake lights are out.” My windows were up, so it was hard to hear.
As I pondered which it might be, a vehicle rear-ended me. And not just any vehicle. An electric vehicle—a favorite among the woke mob.
Partly to avoid encountering the woke mob, my wife and I often have meals delivered from restaurants to our home. The past two times, the delivery person has appeared vaguely androgynous, leaving me unsure of how to respond when my wife asks about the delivery person’s gender, which she usually does.
Both times, while I struggled to answer without saying the wrong thing, our food got cold.
Thanks, wokeness.
For years, the neighborhood coffee place has played music by bands like Creedence Clearwater Revival and Bob Seger—old-white-guy stuff that we used to call the classics. The woke baristas still play that music, but you can tell they’re not into it.
Also, they always seem to have plenty of copies of the New York Times and the local alt weekly lying around. Here’s how many Bibles you’ll find: zero.
I planted lettuce, beans, and carrots in my small back-yard garden, and they were all coming along nicely until something—or someone—picked them clean one night, leaving behind a trampled mess. I didn’t see who did it, but it’s common knowledge that many in the woke mob are vegetarians. You do the math.
During a recent period of unemployment, I sent out dozens of résumés along with cover letters that made no mention of my pronoun preferences. I didn’t get a single interview. Not one. But I’m sure that’s a coincidence. (Sarcasm.)
I’ve always enjoyed going out to bars and restaurants and seeing fun signs on the restroom doors, such as “Buoys” and “Gulls” (at a seafood place) or “Sausage” and “Eggs.” Thanks to the woke mob, I hardly ever see signs like that anymore. And if I do I’m no longer allowed to point and laugh.
I own all seven seasons of “The Dukes of Hazzard” on Blu-ray. Until recently, this was my go-to conversation-starter at parties; now I feel like I can’t even mention it. At least the woke mob is still letting us talk about the weather . . . for now.
Last month, I went to see an improv-comedy group, and, when they asked the audience for a word or phrase to kick things off, someone shouted “woke mob” and the improv people decided to act as if the mob were the actual Mob, as in the Mafia, except socially aware and politically correct, and it was really bad, especially the gags about what to call the nonbinary hit man.
True to woke-mob form, of course, saying that out loud would have been racist. (One of the improvisers was Chinese or something.)
When my wife and I listed our house for sale earlier this year, we learned that you’re not supposed to use the word “master” anymore, leaving us with no way to describe our home’s main bedroom.
In the end, we decided it was easier just to keep the house.
I showed up at a local school-board meeting dressed as a cat to protest the school district’s decision to recognize kids who identify as “furries” and even to include litter boxes for them in school restrooms, only to be told that there was no such policy and no talk of introducing one. Then the vice-chair asked me to stop meowing and to please find a seat.
So much for freedom of speech.
Several of our woke-mob neighbors have “Hate Is Not Welcome Here” signs in their windows or on their yards. I’m not sure how this affects me, exactly, but I’ll think of something. ♦
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