There’s a fellah lives down the street from Port Swiller Manor who, every election cycle, comes round armed with a clipboard full of Donk campaign bumf – biographical material, position statements, pledge lists, that sort of thing.

Today, abandoning his usual candidate-hawking in order to get all cause-y instead, he came round with a petition to our local Congresscritter which he wished me to sign.  Glancing over it, I saw expressions such as “limit magazine capacity” and “assault weapon” and so on.  Yes, the man had caught Gun Control Fevah.

Very, very briefly I toyed with the idea of picking an argument, reminding him of the Constitutional limitations on guvmint power, asking him why on earth I would support measures to limit the ability of law-abiding citizens to protect themselves from marauders who don’t give a pair of fetid dingo’s kidneys about what the law says, suggesting that he was a dupe for certain cynical, grand-standing politicians.

But I’m really just too nice a guy for that.  (Besides, he’s just a harmless albeit misguided old coot.  If he were some young, pierced, smarmy punk, I’d have been much less magnanimous.)

So instead, I simply smiled serenely as I handed the clipboard back to him and said, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly sign something like this.  But thanks for asking, anyway!”

Well, if looks could kill.  For an instant, I thought the guy was going to haul off and slug me.  But he thought better of it and instead, sniffing, turned and stalked off.

And that, children, is how you administer the cut polite.

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