My friends, this may come as a surprise to you, but sometimes Whiggy’s rapier wit and undeniable charm can get him in trouble with Mrs. Whiggy. I know! I too am always shocked when it happens … every day. There was an incident not long ago that I believe has some relevance to today’s political discourse.

Every now and then I find it necessary to improve my understanding of other people by walking a mile in their shoes. Not literally. I’m not allowed to do that anymore. People get very upset when you take their shoes. Especially when they don’t know you. And then you do it while they are walking, in public …in the winter…but that’s another story. How can I possibly understand how other think unless I have lived their lives? So, occasionally I find it necessary to do a little immersive method-acting experimentation.

Right after the Million Vagina March I started pondering Antifa. What made them tick? What went through their mind? (that was not a typo – they share a single brain) I decided to find out by becoming Antifa in my house. Mrs. Wiggy was not impressed. I might have gone too far when I lit fire to the couch and spray painted the cat for wearing fur. She totally over reacted and invited me to emigrate.

I had to leave my home land to avoid her oppressive laws that denied me my right to express myself with words …and paint … and a little fire. There I was standing with all my possessions, Mini-Whiggy and my painted cat. I decided to immigrate to my neighbor’s house. I knew he would be understanding. He was a lesbian who identified as a straight man who dressed as woman. He was also a college professor who taught very popular classes: History, Facts and other Malleable things; and The Industrial Revolution: You Didn’t Build that, Obama Did; and his most popular class Tolerance is for Other People. So, at the risk of my life, I hopped his fence and trudged all forty-five feet to his house. Inexplicably his door was locked. Luckily his windows were not.

The real problems started the next morning. His alarm clock went off and he rolled right over on me! Luckily, the night before, his life-mate whose identification was quite flexible, was deflated in his closet so I could climb right into bed. Quite annoyed at being woken up, I yelled at him to get out of my personal space. Immediately he started peppering me with questions and accusations!

“Why are you in my bed?” he asked rather tersely.

“Umm, because my son has the guestroom and the cat took the couch. Where else was I supposed to sleep?”

“No, why are you even in my house? You are breaking and entering. Get out!”

I was astonished at his complete lack of hospitality. He was constantly posting on social media about all the guests he had at his house for dinners, drinks and flag burnings. I pointed this out to him.

“They were invited or they asked to come over! They had my permission to be in my house!” He retorted rather rudely.

“So now you have to be invited or ask to move into someone’s house? That’s rather fascist. What are you, a racist?” I inquired with the curiosity of Tucker Carlson.

“How am I racist? You are white!”

“Whoa whoa there sister-brother! I am identifying as a Jewish African-American who is identifying as a Muslim Asian. Don’t you put your racist white privilege voodoo on me!”

From there things just went downhill. Arguments were made. Threats were thrown. Names were called. I am pretty sure he called me a sour kumquat at one point. Eventually things calmed down and he went to work. He said something about “be out before I get home, or I’ll call the police”. I knew he was only kidding and he would definitely want me to stay when he realized I would do things around the house that no one wanted to do.

That first day was a busy one. My son and I redecorated the house. Mini-Whiggy is an excellent artist with spray paint for a seven-year-old. We also replaced all the pictures of his parents with pictures of us and our cat (before he was painted – I still feel a little bad about that). I mean, seriously, they were dead. Why did he need pictures of them? We changed the message on his answering machine to both include us and our preferred gibberish language that Mini-Whiggy and I made up when he was three years old. Just because we were in his home doesn’t mean we should change our language. I figured I would teach him our language and make him use it at home. It really was the only fair thing.

He was exceptionally livid when he returned home. Apparently, he did not appreciate the changes we made to “his” home. I reminded him that it was “our” home and that I was sick of being taken for granted. He had the nerve, at that point, to call the police as if there was some sort of law about immigrating to someone else’s house without permission.

“Just calm down,” I pleaded “we can all live together in harmony. You should just put aside your racist elitist views. Now, where is my ATM card for your bank account?”

“Are you crazy? I’m not giving you my money! One, you aren’t even supposed to be here. Two, you haven’t earned it!”

Well, I had heard just about enough of his Nazi propaganda!

“Maybe you don’t know this, but this is a free country! What is your definition of free? To me free means … well free! It means I don’t have to pay for things!”

“That’s not …” He was interrupted before he could continue his sexist anti-Semitic rant by the arrival of the Stasi.

The whole thing was unfair from the start. He explained his fascist views of ownership and “private property” to the police. Then told me I would have to leave or be arrested and thrown into the gulag. Apparently, there are “laws” that people are supposed to follow regarding personal property. Pfft!

“Oh, you just hold on right there! I brought my young son and my rainbow cat with me. This is their home now. He has always dreamed of having a home in which he could practice his campfire skills. You wouldn’t ruin that dream, would you? You wouldn’t kick those little dreamers out, would you? You wouldn’t want to separate our family? That’s just heartless. What, are you Nazi sympathizers?”

The police officer looked at him and said, “I got nothin’”

Right about then, Mrs. Whiggy showed up with the special “Bail Credit Card” and told me I had to go home. I told her that I couldn’t possibly leave my new adopted home and that I would send her money soon.

“And anyway,” I said “Mini-Whiggy has made his home here. No one can make us leave.”

“Honey,” she responded, “Trump is going to make it so we can’t do that anymore.”

“He is going to what? Time to riot!”

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