I participated in my first-ever Trump rally last weekend. Sat in a giant thwoppida-thwoppida diesel pickup with a dear pal driving. I’m guessing there were 100 to 150 vehicles. Big-asterisk 4-by-4s. Jeeps. A few regular people cars and sensible soccer mom SUVs. All brandished wind-blown proud American flags, from petite to Sail-OUR-Gunboat-Into-YOUR-Banana-Republic-Harbor size. Enough to make pursed-lipped liberals fan themselves, grab imaginary pearl necklaces and stammer, in a nasally, high-pitched voice, “Well! The Ladies’ Auxiliary Will Certainly Hear About — THIS!!!”  Call me old-fashioned. Guys shouldn’t wear pearls, let alone clutch them.  Like readying for the Boston Tea Party, we met at a “secret” launch site to decorate our vehicles. The organizers didn’t publicize the location. That’s a sure-fire way to invite louts, rowdies, karens and useless bureaucrats to crash the party and offer some unasked-for performance art sissy dance fit. It’s America, 2024. A dangerous time to plant a lawn sign announcing you like El Donald Muy.  Our parade started in Valencia, meandered west, circled around, took Soledad and ended up in Canyon Country. We made a loud but gloriously polite noise, didn’t block traffic. Didn’t glue our hands and butts to the asphalt nor scream obscenities. Couldn’t find a single Hillary statue to deface or topple. Drat und nertz …  Didn’t loot a single thing, although, I did buy a really cool TRUMP tan camo baseball cap that I’m presently wearing. Sigh. One of my treasured shortcomings. Exposing anything MAGA in front of a Democrat is like producing a crucifix and spraying a vampire with holy water. How their screams become music to my ears — “I’M MELLLL-TINGGGG-guh!!!”  I’m not sure if I’m allowed to write anymore that the Left’s permanently pursed-lip set can kiss my rural dusty butt. In these hepcat daddy confused sexual climes, I’m afraid some multi-initialed escaped inmate might take me literally, and, worse, become emotionally attached.  Double worse? What if someone snapped an iPhone pix of the event? Try living THAT down back at the stables.  Daily? I probably drive too fast, zig-zagging about my boyhood valley, eager to be 24 seconds ahead of the glorious Present, unaware of ancient friends, the big blue sky, hills the color of a mountain lion. It was peaceful sitting in the passenger seat, cruising at a perfect, no-hurry pace. I took in things I sometimes don’t notice. Magnificent, giant, fluffy clouds, forever threatening rain over Acton in the eastern distance. Crows balanced on telephone poles. Yet another new flavorless yogurtorium grand opening. I’m a pinch hard of hearing, but, the response seemed overwhelmingly positive for our parade. Just three from the snarling baby-killing political demographic took umbrage at our rally. A lonely single middle digit (Key to their mother’s chastity belts? Girlfriend’s IQ? Personal ATM password?) was angrily unleashed. Dozens on the route rolled down windows, waved and offered thumbs up or an enthusiastic, “GO, TRUMP!”  Here. Let me type that again in case a liberal is reading:  “GO, TUHHHH-RUH-UMP!!!!”  (Hissing sound of flesh melting …)   One of my life’s greatest and unrealized challenges is to be kind, as my former boss, Ruth Newhall suggested (threatened, actually) — “… write with a feather, not an anvil.”  Sigh. But an anvil leaves such a lovely bruise …  I’m blessed with many dear Dem-friends who reside in the 666 ZIP code. They possess uncountable qualities — intelligence, introspection, kindness, a charitable heart, problem solving, friendship, sense of humor. All that leaps screaming from a 12-story window when politics are introduced. The Charles Manson wide-eyed acolyte sex addict Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme could run for the Oval Office as a Democrat. They’d go all dreamy-eyed and swoon, “Finally. A woman for president!!” I might be tempted to point out The Squeakster was a homicidal, low-IQ, hyena-laughing psycho murdererette who (like You-Know-Who) slept her way to stardom, but, who wants to be called a hater?  This thing with Democrat buddies? It’s like having a dear sweet child. You love and treasure them so much it hurts. Off to school they skip. Semester after semester, they return with report cards garnished with six “A-plusses.” You’re giddy! Then, there it is. Nestled amongst all the wunderkind testimonials is that fateful, stinky, Scarlet Letter. Not “A” but “F.”   Fail. Stupido. Flunk-Ola. Your Kid’s A Booger-Eating Moron At Least In South Dakota History. The question arises. Why can’t your offspring transfer that blinding intelligence from their A-plus classes and apply it to South Dakota History especially when they got an “A-plus” in North Dakota History, or, to make the analogy obvious — “Politics?”  Now. Some Democrats — not all — are evil, wicked, thieving, mangy coyote dishonest at a cellular level, oppressive, hateful, arrogant, stubborn and should be horse-whipped Friday nights on pay TV. I’d add that to my cable package in a blink. The vast majority, even when shown photographic evidence that Sioux Falls is NOT in Hungary, will hyperventilate, swearing it is and, worse, the state tongue of South Dakota is Polish.  Double-Worse? They’re voting for Mr. Magoo. Again.  ME: “But … but … but … Magoo’s a two-dimensional cartoon character. And criminally near-sighted!”  THEM: “I don’t. Care.”    I am in the midst of an interesting life, lucky to live in an almost entirely kind, can-do, let-me-help-you-with-that American civilization where a third of the population is gnawing at the ankles of their neighbors, another third doesn’t seem to mind or notice and the last third (us’ns) is clearing their throats, politely noting, “You’re starting to draw blood.”  Buffoonocracy is nothing new.  People have giddily worshipped the Mr. and Mrs. Magoo’s, handing them a lifetime of adoration, graft, power and perversion. Tribes and civilizations? They come and they go.  Me? I got to ride in a lovely Autumn parade, wave an American flag and cheer for my side — Sanity. Come November, I’m voting for nothing with a (D) backing it.  Left or Right, love my friends. But, still. One wonders: How can some dear liberal pals ace an “A” in North Dakota History and not find South Dakota on a map of South Dakota?  Come Halloween, John Boston’s launching his new, multimedia website, johnlovesamerica.com.  The post John Boston | Forget the Wolf. Buffoonocracy Is at Our Door. appeared first on Santa Clarita Valley Signal.