What, me watch the Dem Convention?

OK, I’m the first to admit that I'm a political kind of guy.  I’ll even plead guilty to being preoccupied with politics.  Whenever I can listen to the radio, it's tuned to a political talk show.  I read American Thinker and other political websites over my coffee each morning and have even been known to write for them on occasion.

And I don’t shy away from discussing politics, although I’m not one who feels compelled to bring it into every single conversation.  But when others remark that they don’t really have an interest in politics, I do tend to remark that such lack of interest is a luxury that may have a limited shelf life.

In fact, I’ve been known to remind such folk of the quote attributed to Pericles (the Greek statesman who lived in the 5th century BCE, in the period between the Greco-Persian and Peloponnesian wars): “just because you don’t take an interest in politics doesn’t mean that politics won’t take an interest in you.”

Sometimes I use a more modern example of how, even if you take no interest in politics, it may one day “come knocking on your door” the way it did, quite literally (and quite rudely), in the middle of the night, to the Tutsis in Rwanda in 1994, in the person of their erstwhile peacefully coexistent Hutu neighbors, who came knocking with pangas (machetes) in hand and, over the course of several months, hacked to death or otherwise murdered some 800,000 of their Tutsi countrymen.

But when it comes to actually watching the clown show known as the Democrat National Convention, that leaves me cold.  It's as if I picked up my TV Guide and found that the networks were all featuring live coverage of a massive three-way brannigan among the Idiots, the Imbeciles, and the Morons.  There's just nothing about it that strikes me as educational, illuminating, enlightening, or even entertaining.  It’s the nadir of “reality TV.”  My desire to watch it is Zero, Zip, Zilch, Nada, Nichego (that last one is Russki and is pronounced “nee-chee-vo”).

Even though I know that what transpires there will eventually impact my life, in ways that will most assuredly be less than pleasant, I want to riffle through that same TV Guide and see if there isn't something, even a re-run of Car 54, Where Are You?, that I can watch instead.

Stu Tarlowe, 68, is a semi-retired American entrepreneur, raconteur, chanteur, boulevardier, pundit, and curmudgeon who has had over 100 pieces published by American Thinker.  He lives with an 11-year-old Shiloh Shepherd named Paladin.

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