There is a phenomenon that, until now, I have been able to ignore. What happened over the weekend in South Carolina is but the most recent example of a certain kind of individual gaining prominence in our good land. As a staunch supporter of small town squares, neighborhoods in which one may sound out one's children with sparklers and a slingshot and not have to worry whether anyone might put out an eye, and of course cotton candy, these Urbanites threaten everything that is good and right in this country.
If you have not encountered these gritty, citified masses, then you have not had to deal with their coarse manner, their off-putting commitment to being different, both in appearance and philosophy. Consider some of their more disturbing character traits:
- Their music is often driven, nay, possessed, by carnal rhythms, and chanted in tribal formulae that hypnotize naive women and cause them to perform garish gyrations. Nowhere may be heard a banjo, or even a ukulele.
- Their manner of dress is sloppy, and unoriginal. Our sporting shirts and khaki trousers have been transmogrified into baggy wastes of cloth. Alternatively, they may dress in suits that are too short, too tight, revealing all manner of private sinuosities. Soon no doubt we shall see some Urbanite wearing some horribly mangled priestly vestments, designed only to shock and titillate.
- They have an unnatural preference for public transportation. Who doesn't prefer the quiet moments behind the wheel of one's own automobile, free from the smells and pressures of other people's filthy bodies? One might be inclined to suggest the taxicab as a happy compromise between the Urbanites and the rest of us good Americans, but again, there is the stench of foreign breath, and unknown spices and flavors. Disgusting.
Obviously there are the standard aversions to hard work, self-determination, and ponies, but these need not be repeated. Simply put, the Urbanites want to be paid by the government to wear their baggy or tight clothes, play their basso profundo music, and take their trains to smoky clubs where seditious plots and revolutions are fomented. It is incumbent upon us, then, to push back with our pure, snowy might, and vote against the insurgents. As a proper corporate citizen, my vote can only be fore Governor Romney, in all his robotic glory. Programmed for right, with that dreamy grin and perfect hair, Mitt is my man. And he's also the man for our kind of America. A non-Urban America.
To the booths, ladies and gentlemen, and then on to the malls, and the big box retailers, and to Wal-Mart! Onward, corporate soldiers!