An Open Letter to the Trumpkins

Come, gather around, my little red hats. For I have a message of peace and hope. Now, you say you have the answers and know everything, but soon we'll all be dead. 

Personally, I've never figured out how the kangaroos left Noah's ark and made it back to Australia. Yeah, I know about the land bridge theory, except that there's no evidence for it. And those poor little guys only had 4,000 years to get back to their continent, and not a single kangaroo skeleton has ever been found beyond Down Under.

So, if there weren't really kangaroos on the ark, isn't it time to question EVERYTHING? I'm old and tired, and I'm getting tired of screaming, but how many times must I tell you to QUESTION. When the oil addicts tell you it's okay to blast limitless carbon into the atmosphere, you should QUESTION THAT. I am here to tell you my little friends that CLIMATE CHANGE IS REAL. It's a serious threat to our little blue marble, which floats through space as it waits to die.

And, my little orange-haired children, why do you make fun of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and her Green New Deal? Are you totally shocked that someone gives a damn? Instead of ridiculing her and her plan, you should say, "Thank you, AOC, that's a great start." And then you should put your brain in high gear and contribute to the solution.

Not that I'm judgmental, but I think people spend too much time doing things that don't matter. We should all be going to Canada right now to beat the living crap out of those fishermen who club seals in their spare time. Yeah, I said I'm for peace, and I think animals should have peace too. And if I see you wearing a seal fur I'll throw ink on it, or do something tacky.

And if you don't want to stop seal clubbers, then consider getting an electric car, having less children, reducing meat consumption, and adopting a simplistic lifestyle. And, for god sakes, RECYCLE! Because that's the only way we are going to save our beautiful planet, which we have poisoned and crippled in just a few generations.

And please don't tell me that everything is part of God's plan. God has no plan except to give children bone cancer and ensure that we all have miserable lives, so that we can turn to alcohol, meth, and prescription pills, and stay numb enough to avoid the pain that you call love.

Stand up Trumpkins, or die on your knees. Stop screaming "lock her up" long enough to hear the trickle of a creek or the sound of songbirds in the morning. Trade your "Grab Me Too" shirts for a pair of gloves, and start picking up plastic off our seashores. Because every time I see pictures of a dead bird or fish with a stomach full of plastic, I am sickened. How low can our miserable species get? The only thing we do well is make babies and plastic, and the Earth has too much of each.

If I hurt your feelings, I don't care, because some things are worth fighting for. If you send Saudi agents to chop me up, I just don't care. Because I have said what needed to be said, I got it off my chest, and now I have a little peace.

My gut intuition is that we humans will be the next failed species, but what is the point of blogging if I don't provide hope and solutions? So, I will tell you this, my brothers and sisters. I spend hours separating and recycling everything I can, and I know it won't make a difference, but it's one of the few ways that I can say "thank you" to this beautiful, amazing world that I live in. I support the Sierra Club when and wherever I can because they are ferocious Robin Hoods fighting against impossible odds. They have my heart, but then you Trumpkins tell me that the Sierra Club is a "cult" or "bad."

I know you get pissed when visitors sit in your pew at church because you've been sitting there for 30 years. You've been frozen faced and loyal as the preacher rambles about one capital campaign after another. You make sure that you flash that $20 bill around to impress the elderly ladies, then you let it slowly sink into the pure-brass offering plate.

And then you judge me. You call me a Marxist, granola-eating tree hugger that is driving our country into degradation. Just because I don't think Harry Potter books are satanic and just because I don't care one iota if a man marries a man, that doesn't give you the right to look down on me. I'm not up late at night reading how Lot had sex with his daughters and then offered them to be gang raped. Oh holy ones on the white horses, that's YOUR problem to figure out. All I know is that every time I see a dead deer on the side of the road I find myself feeling again. I want to suppress those feelings and be like you, but I can't.

As I write this the Trumpkins in Georgia have placed even more restrictions on the already-restricted abortion laws in Georgia. The state legislators waited until halfway through the session and then jumped into action to push their moral issues. They are pro-life because it's not like seal clubbing, but rather these men are going to force desperate women, often who are in dire circumstances, to have those unwanted babies. When the legislators return to their little country churches, they will be applauded as great heroes, and they'll sit up front, next to the pastor, during the morning service. They will be given laurels and the church congregation will applaud wildly, and everyone will be happy as the uterus police begin searching for violators as the church members sing uncontrollably out of their tattered hymnal books.

Look at me, Trumpkins, I am no better. I am just one struggling human who feels too much and cares too much. Not for your self-righteous campaigns and pompousness, but rather I feel for the Earth, animals, and the general failing state of our civilization.

If I could only say one thing to you, I would say, again, to stop doing things that don't amount to anything and start doing things that really matter.

 Photo:Vidar Nordli-Mathisen