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My Wicked Shirt

Today I was wearing my Obama t-shirt. After all, the shirt was a birthday present to me from our son, it’s well crafted and will be useful as an extra shirt, so what’s the harm?

I walked into a shop, winter coat tightly zipped over the shirt against the weather chill, and stood in line for several moments while a salesperson and a customer in front of me loudly berated Obama [for all the damage and dismal prognosis for the country’s future from his daring to be President of the USA for less than a week???!?] and every other imaginable assorted ill facing humanity.

Since the customer in front of me had been ranting over reasons she apparently perceived that Obama wanted to [destroy the world as we know it] in the midst of ongoing legislative wrangling over you and me paying for her vitamins, and since these ladies turned to me for comment, I tried to suggest as gently as I could that they not panic over legislation not yet passed.

I absorbed cautious looks from both the ladies and moved next in line. Then I opened my jacket to reveal the shirt, and claimed "Truth in lending."
accompanied with the most gentle smile in my repertoire.

The poor hapless soul behind the counter lost all powers of speech and hope of direct visual contact. She appeared breathless for several minutes. Thank heaven she didn’t faint. I suppose I was suddenly the devil-incarnate.

Oh heck. Sometimes you can’t hope to win except by pretending to lose, I guess.

I paid the bill and wished her a pleasant day, collected my ordered goods, and never received a direct look or comment during the entire encounter.

What HAVE these people been told, by whom, that they would be so terrified about participating in a normal society?!

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