Doomed to repeat it

I've got a t-shirt for the band NOFX that is disrespectful to the president of the United States. That might not sound very impressive to you now that his entire cabinet is going to jail and most people have discovered that he is not in fact Jesus Christ and Abraham Lincoln rolled into one condescending package, but in a primitive time I like to call 2003, things were quite different.
That shirt nearly got me hit at least a dozen times. A lot of folks made the leap from mocking George Bush to hating the troops a lot quicker than I did, and frequently announced their conclusions to me loudly and in public. Never mind that I disliked Bush because I liked the troops, and never mind that a lot of the fraternity guys didn't know anyone who was actually getting blown up so Exxon stock could catch a half-point bump. They knew the score and were prepared to flatback me like we were at a high school football game. Which we weren't, because I never played and they'd put on 30 pounds of Coors Light weight since the last time they'd practiced.
Once I wore the shirt to a rugby club party. I knew several people who played and knew that they prided themselves on breaking rules and sticking it to the man, which was why they played a contact sport at the club level, where the university couldn't effectively bust them for vandalism or pre-game drinking. I foolishly thought that meant that the whole club would be inclined to agree with me, or at least be interesting to argue politics with after a series of beers.
Wrong. I'd disregarded the first rule of guys in groups, which is that there's always some ignorant jackass looking for a fight. I was talking to a girl I knew and messing around with a pair of those juggling sticks you see at Renaissance fairs when a big guy with a bad haircut walked up and made a show of squinting at my shirt, like he couldn't quite read it.
"You gotta problem with your commander-in-chief?" he said. He let some chewing tobacco run out of his mouth into a red plastic cup in his left hand and took a quick pop from the one in his left, his eyes never leaving me. "Not sure I like that."
"I'm sorry," I said, still juggling.
"Not sure I like that at all," he said. "What's your problem?'
"I'm not a fan of the whole Iraq thing. I think it's happening for the wrong reasons and I'm worried about my buddies over there. Also, I'm a liberal." I gave him a smile after that. No hard feelings, buddy.
But there were. I let the middle stick drop and looked at him. There's a misconception some places that Nevadans are not large folks. Visitors to Las Vegas believe that this is because everyone has had cosmetic surgery, while visitors to other parts of the state tend to attribute it to meth. At maybe six-three and 250, this guy was no meth head, and if he'd ever had work done he was desperately due for a refresher.
"You think that's cool?" he said. "What do your parents do? Did you grow up poor?"
If I hadn't made the same argument myself, I never would have followed. As it was, I figured he was questioning my punkness because I clearly was well nourished and not high. Unfortunately for him, I've never claimed to be a punk rocker, and yet I was still able to call George Bush a fascist with no ill effects. I explained this to him, using small words so he'd be able to understand. That might not have been a prudent decision.
"You...you need to get out of my house," he said. The girl I'd been talking to had faded into the surrounding crowd like an undercover cop. So much for loyalty. "Why do you hate America?"
"This is your house?" I said. "If you're asking me to go, I'll leave. Let me grab my friends."
He gave me an expression that seemed to be somewhere between pained at my treason and confused by my stupidity. "No, it's not my house. It's just... Dude, I'll mess you up!"
I considered my options. I had two juggling batons, each about an inch thick and 36 inches long. Ego aside, I'd spent a significant amount of time learning how to hurt people with instruments just such as these and was pretty sure that if I cut loose, he'd wake up under the distinct impression that someone had dropped an atom bomb on his head and wouldn't be able to testify regarding my involvement in the incident. But rugby guys roll deep, and if it was game on with Lurch, it was going to be game on with at least six more guys, and I wasn't keen on getting ratpacked. I tucked the sticks back into my forearms and said, "No problem. We're going."
And so I got run out of a house party in northwest Reno. Half my crew stayed behind, and those are the people I rarely speak to these days. As soon as I dropped the sticks and we piled into my Tercel, the jeering started. Who dared question the president in These Dire Times? If you weren't in favor of the Patriot Act, you could just... uh... move to Canada! Yeah, that would teach you! Never mind that Vancouver is the single greatest place you've ever been, full of blazing hot 19-year-old brunettes and amateur models of both sexes with realistic dispositions regarding marijuana use. You must suffer for not being a complete tool!
Here's my point: What I'm saying is satire now but it wasn't always. According to public opinion polls, a full 85 percent of you hated my ass as of 9/12/01. Let's remember this little inconvenience. People who try to erode our civil rights by frightening us are terrorist bastards, unless they give said scare tactics a catchy name, such as "The War on Terrorism," in which case they get Bronze Stars, while the war heroes I drink with get limited health benefits and meaningless Purple Hearts for saving these pencil-necked desk jockeys from the consequences of their own inept actions.
If you're still not clear on my alleged "point," it's this: If you've never seen an IED, even if your name is George W. Bush or Harry V. Reid, it's time for you to shut up and let the grown-ups work out this Iraq situation. Yeah, we all have ideas, but somehow they start to get a little more focused when firey destruction is a distinct possibility.
Some people might say that my views are Spartan because military minds get bonus points. My response is: You nailed it. If you wanted to live in peacetime, you should have voted the other way in 2004. Wake me up when we've stopped invading sovereign nations and I'll hit you with some Democrat ideals. Until then, suck it up and watch my Haliburton stock flourish.