If I were to ask you to imagine a car load of war-supporting teenagers, you could picture them, can’t you?

If I were to describe a man who pulled over and got out of his car to shout from across the street that he supported our right to say what we were saying –thanks to our soldiers in Iraq fighting for our freedoms, you could picture that guy, couldn’t you?

Imagine a pickup truck bed full of pro-war males –no, this didn’t happen– jumping up and down, shouting and pumping their arms, but you know what they would look like don’t you?

It’s the pro-war look. Not just a lack-of-flair, conformity thing, the look actually seems genetic or familial tradition. Bad haircuts, ill-fitting clothes, pudge, stiff necks, shiny complexions, eyes deep set reflecting someone with nothing upon which focus if they tried to meditate, their only private moments shared with the TV or the loo or their private parts. You can see on their foreheads the neon “vacancy” sign, or a flashing Don’t Walk signal.
Oafs -maybe that describes them. Not un-smart, not mean per se, not undeserving of their mother’s love, or sympathy. Really, they’re not unlike dogs. They do what they’re told, follow their food source unconditionally, bark at strangers because they’re nervous, pee on what they claim to be theirs, and shit on the carpet when they want attention.

Dumb smirks. You can spot Bush supporters before they open their mouths. If the American Right has a uniform, it’s eugenics.

Don’t tell me we can’t judge these books by their covers.