I try to avoid wading into political minefields when posting on social media, preferring instead to upload jokes and photos of my travels and my dog. So far, nobody has fired off an angry retort, accusing me of having a “snowflake” or “cuckold” Cockapoo.
But I couldn’t help myself after learning Rob Hiaasen, a former co-worker at the Palm Beach Post where I began my journalism career, was among the victims of the Capital Gazette shooting. My anger at the tragedy itself, and the contempt so many Americans suddenly feel for journalists, spilled over in a Facebook post. Beneath a photo of Rob, I wrote:
“He was not an ‘enemy of the people.’ And anyone who thinks journalists, ANY journalists, fall into this category that our president has created, then please unfriend me for I too am a working journalist and, therefore, could not possibly be your friend.”
An old high school chum, and political conservative, pounced.
“Where was your outrage when the shooter only shot at Republicans at the congressional softball game?” he messaged me on Facebook, referring to the June 2017 incident that seriously wounded Louisiana Republican Congressman Steve Scalise.
We talked it out, via Facebook naturally, and remain friends. He apologized for the comments, and I assured him I am equally outraged whenever a deranged individual with a high-powered weapon empties its contents anywhere, be it at a public high school, a gay nightclub, a house of worship, a country music festival; even an athletic field populated with legislators whose policies I disagree with.
However, to avoid further online confrontations, I think it wise to publically list, to the best of my ability, every individual, incident and injustice currently making my gut churn. Therefore, I can never again be accused of “selective outrage.” In no particular order, here goes:
My neighbor, who feels 7 a.m. on Sunday is the optimal time to use his leaf blower.
The fat content in Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby.
The Cubs’ acquisition of Yu Darvish.
My old girlfriend’s insistence on pronouncing “pasta” with a short ‘a’ sound. “Pasta salad” sounded like “pass the salad” whenever she ordered it. I think that’s why we broke up.
The final scene of The Sopranos. Still haven’t gotten over it.
People who rage against airlines on Twitter because they were denied first-class upgrades.
People whose tweets end with, “Retweet if you agree.”
Twitter.
My kids’ failure to comprehend that a dishwasher’s contents eventually need to be removed and restacked in the pantry.
A carton of orange juice in the refrigerator with nary a swallow remaining.
Mariachi bands.
The fact that there’s nothing to do in downtown Atlanta after 7 p.m.
The stretch of Interstate 80-94 near the Indiana border that must be torn up and reconstructed every summer.
Middle school graduation parties.
Immigrant parents separated from their children.
My putting stroke.
Henry “Fonzie” Winkler’s sudden desire to post, on his Twitter feed, photos of his recent fishing trip.
Male Apple Genius Bar employees wearing shorts.
Business-related emails containing emojis.
Whoever invented emojis.
Anybody who asks me, “How come you don’t accept Venmo?”
The woman in front of me at Chipotle last week who couldn’t stop saying, “on the side.”
“Southern” singers and comedians whose southern accents become mysteriously more pronounced when they take the stage.
Knowing Survivor host Jef Probst gets the hell off the island and stays in a luxury hotel once the cameras stop rolling.
Donald Trump. Senior and Junior.
People who sneeze or cough and then say, “This is not a good week for me to be sick.”
Marilyn, who I have never defeated at Words with Friends.
And, finally, the “reply” and “comment” features in social media apps. Think how calm we would all be if we were unable to scroll down and read the vitriol and hatred that spills, often anonymously, from the keyboards of those who disagree with our views.
Retweet if you agree. On second thought, don’t.
