As promised, I had my own little town-hall meeting, trying to find out exactly what it is that so many of you are so mad about. I appreciate all of you who attended and did all the angry shouting, and you mousier ones too. Thanks for coming and letting off steam. If indeed that's what you were letting off.
I've had your comments analyzed by a certified Mad Panel — a farm club of the famous Death Panel — and its decision is just in. Sorry but the Mad Panel says you're not as mad as you're letting on. Times just aren't tough enough now for the kind of serious mad that you're affecting — the kind of mad that precipitates revolution. That “wants its country back.”
The kind of mad y'all are, you have to look for something to be mad about, or for some rabble-rouser to convince you you're mad about it. It's what my old radical running buddies used to call bourgeois mad.
Listed below are nearly all the grievances you expressed at the town hall. I'm excluding only those that you picked directly from the crazy tree, or that were too long and boring, or that you punctuated (totally uncalled for, too) by shooting off your deer rifles and six-guns.
OK, here are your mad libs —
You're mad because it happens all the time that people at another table at a restaurant — people who came in after you did — get served before you do.
You're mad because the person you root for always gets voted off the island.
You're mad because, just about every time, those snotty little Fifth Graders prove that they are indeed smarter than you are.
You're mad because you're never among those allowed to pre-board.
You're mad because for all our scientific progress half the time the tap water tastes like fish.
You're mad because someone else's 6-year-old child always beats out yours in these beauty contests that doll up baby girls to look like whores.
You're mad about inactivity fees, and the very idea.
You're mad because, according to the prosperity gospel preachers, God wants everybody to be rich and happy — except, apparently, you,
You're mad because those who don't have the advantages and the stuff that you have, if they can't have it, they don't want you to have it either.
You're mad they let common people with rashes, cooties, and probably v.d. into the church pool.
You're mad that you used up all your lifelines while the questions were still real easy.
You're mad about the vandalism involving your back-hoe.
You're still mad about the Alamo. And Tony Alamo.
You're mad that you had to give up watching “Saving Grace” because Holly Hunter just won't wash her filthy hair.
You're mad because every time you buy something you're proud of, some fool you know gets a lot better deal on the same merchandise, then hooraws you about it for the next 10 years, it seems like.
You're mad because it's so undemocratic, and just plain rude, that your presence is going to be required at this Last Judgment business, even if you don't feel like it, or have a prior commitment, or they don't have a ramp.
You're mad because before you know it your time's up.
You're mad because it never was what it was cracked up to be.
You're still mad about the Missouri Compromise.
You're still mad because all the townspeople in “High Noon” were such chickenshits.
You're still mad that while it might've got some people a dee-luxe apartment in the sky, affirmative action didn't get you Jack Squat.
You're mad because you know the help are furtively mocking you behind your back.
You're mad because nothing came of all those success secrets you learned at the motivational seminars.
You're mad because a Facebook quiz told you that if you were a household appliance you'd be a commode.
You're mad because the hurrier you go the behinder you get.
You're mad because with all the necessary household tasks, gittin'-r-done is always harder than you reckoned on, and always takes a lot longer.
You're mad because it's more and more the case as you get along toward the sunset that, just when you start having a good time, you have to interrupt it to go pee.
You're mad because you could've been a contender if somebody had just looked out for you.
You're mad because death is going to screw you out of your Second Amendment gun rights. (No, despite what you've heard from the NRA, they don't allow firearms on the Other Side. Not even Yosemite Sam could get one in.)
You're mad because it's always somebody else's old chiffarobe that turns out to be worth a fortune on the Antiques Roadshow.
And 12 more I don't have room for, and I'm a little mad, in that same category of mad, about that.