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I was in a progressive-acceptable location, filled to bursting (as is my wont) with ready wit and unshakable extemporaneous wisdom, when suddenly a generic freeper appeared. The physicality of this creature was evocative of countless conservative stereotypes—a white trash complacent working class traitor who was a wealthy old-money suburbanite rural middle-aged overweight male. He was balding perhaps, wearing a t-shirt that read: “Iraqi Freedom Isn’t Free Trade Enlistees for Oil Executive.” He proceeded to engage in behavior pursuant to his cliched freeper leanings—behavior that passes description. I would embellish it for you all, but amazingly the behavior lined up expertly with the most unfavorable embellishments.
Luckily I was there. All eyes turned to me. They knew as I did this monstrous creature of ultimate evil was practically invincible--only a paradoxical combination of pithy one-liners and longwinded fact-spewing verbosity had a chance of stopping him. Happily I am never at a loss for words, anxious about making a public scene, or without my library of references, arranged by topic in color-coded binders. With remarkable audacity, I confronted the perilous peripatetic and vanquished him with down-home wit and uptown didactic pedantry. He wept openly as I crushed his political beliefs like an old pretzel. As he wiped his eyes, he registered for the Democratic Party on one of the voter registration forms I keep in low-slung holsters at all times. I was chaired through the city that day as a conquering progressive hero.
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