I’m more outraged than my brother-in-law Joey getting denied parole—again—over the way the woke left are trying to turn back our future.
Why just the other day my eldest son Marty brought home his first girlfriend, Jennifer, for a summer BBQ. I was so proud of my boy. He’d always been considered the runt of the litter and to see him strut into the backyard with a “Perfect 10” was something special. Jennifer was everything one should look for in a partner: long wavy brown hair, slim body, and the face of an 80s movie star, and a 90s made-for-TV leading lady. I even took the truck for a double wax so Marty and her could take it up to the lake for the weekend.
I bought Beyond-Meat Sausages and I Can’t Believe They’re not Baby Back Ribs ribs because Jennifer is a vegan—whatever the heck that is. My wife Greta whipped up her world-famous sweet potato salad. Let me tell you, friends, you ain’t tasted nothing until you’ve dipped your tongue into Greta’s thick, creamy sauce.
Marty told us he met Jennifer online. Now I’m a pretty hip dad, but I’ll never understand online dating. I mean who knows who you’re talking to on those things. For all you know, it’s some Ukrainian sleazeball named Zelensky hitting you up for the family fortune. Of course, Greta and I met the old fashioned way: in the parking lot of a YMCA dance where we slurped from a flask she swiped from her old lady’s liquor cabinet.
Anyway, with the July sun blazing down on me while I’m tending to my fake meat I ask, nicely, for Greta to grab my Ray Bans. Of course, I recall warmer summers, but the liberal Hollywood woke left are trying to tell me this is the hottest summer on record, and that it’s only going to get worse. They call it “climate change,” as they jet around the globe spouting unscientific gibberish. All I know is that growing up in Africa it was a lot hotter than anything I’ve experienced in “climate crisis” Canada.
Forecasting the Future
We sat down at the picnic table that Greta had decorated with a floral sarong and vase with fresh cut daisies. Marty commented: “Hot as Haiti out here.”
To which Jennifer corrected him: “It’s Hades not Haiti. That’s racist!”
“Who knew,” Greta added.
Then Greta announced that her brother Joey didn’t make parole, again. Joey was part of the Freedom Convoy and like St. Tamara Lich had been sitting in an Ottawa jail cell for the “crime” of standing up for his rights. I said a silent prayer for both my fallen soldier Joey and our freedom heroine Tamara. Then I asked Jennifer who was going to win the World Series this year and she told me the Blue Jays. Jennifer had an uncanny ability to accurately predict the outcome of all future sporting events.
Everyone was getting along famously until Marty blurted out: “Pop, you shouldn’t wear your sunglasses at the table.”
“Excuse me,” I said, fake sausage falling from my mouth.
“Actually,” Jennifer chimed in, “sunglasses are a tool of the patriarchy. They’re used to hide ogling eyes and sinister looks. They make women feel very uncomfortable.”
“Ogle?” I asked, while casually glancing at her pointy breasts. I immediately turned to my beautiful wife: “Do these sunglasses make you feel oppressed?”
Greta said, “Don’t start, dear.”
But I was already out of the gate. I said: “Jennifer, I don’t know what kind of wokeness goes on in Hill Valley or wherever you’re from, but at the old Gelman homestead we don’t ascribe to that kind of thinking. Then I added: “What other tools of oppression go on in your Lalaland?”
Well, I couldn’t believe it. This woman went off telling me about crazier and crazier tools of oppression: climate change, assigned genders, pronouns, hairstyles, library books, weight, bathing suits and other clothing like my Ray Bans, religion, TV and movies, appropriating cultures, and even how you go to the bathroom. “Not to mention the majority of your op-eds, Mr. Gelman,” she said, while smearing gluten-free mayonnaise on her faux sausage.
I said: “What’s next, the kind of car you drive on the road?”
“Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads,” she mumbled.
“Because they’re also oppressive!” Marty biffed.
Needless to say we ate the rest of our meal in silence. Then her grandfather, or who I assumed to be her grandfather, came to pick her up in a cool silver sports car I hadn’t seen on the road in ages. He was a real wacko looking mad scientist type who must be feeding her this nonsense, as well as items from our garbage bin because I saw him going through it before they left.
The Power of Love
That evening, I met Marty by the freshly waxed truck. I sat him down and said: “You know, son, it’s tough to meet the right person, but you definitely don’t want to settle for a left wing-nut.”
I continued: “I’ll wear my sunglasses, my tanktop, and piss standing up and no one from some woke Hill Valley is going to tell me otherwise.”
You see, friends, what has made Greta and I last so long is that we respect each other’s personal choices. Maybe she doesn’t like that I wear sunglasses or that I use a fake Chinese accent when talking to my best friend Mr. Wonton. But she also doesn’t tell me that I’m making people uncomfortable or that I’m guilty of white privilege or that I’m a racist because I’ve never heard of Hades. I assume it’s a resort town on the Amalfi coast.
That’s when Marty said: “Maybe I don’t mind being with someone who is woke.” He leaned against the beautiful black truck.
“Great Scott!” I screamed.
Then I decided that I couldn’t debate that point because he was right. That’s the power of love. It can strike you when you’re least expecting it: falling out of a tree and getting hit by a car, or drinking gin outside the Enchantment Under the Sea dance listening to Johnny B. Goode. That said, in the future no matter what it looks like—flying cars, hoverboards, Pepsi Perfect—we have to be able to accept people for who they are, not what we think represents them.
Marty made like a tree and left for the lake. I crawled into bed next to Greta and said, “Love is like a lightning bolt, you unfortunately never know when it’s going to strike.” My wife lifted the duvet over me and said sweetly: “Take off your sunglasses and let’s make some more potato salad.” I did as she asked.
And that’s all the woke nonsense I can muster this week!
Producer of Woke Up! podcast, father of six, husband to Greta, and author of Johnny Jock PI Moon Rock Opera.