Put on my boots, jumped in my F-150, cooked a rare steak, had a cup of Black Rifle coffee, poured a glass of bourbon...
Put on my boots, jumped in my F-150, cooked a rare steak, had a cup of Black Rifle coffee, poured a glass of bourbon...
...loaded my $15000 AR-15, bought some Dude Wipes, put on my Blu-ray collection of Clint Eastwood movies, told everyone I came across that I wasn't gay, stifled all emotion, had my wife make a sandwich and raise my kids, told my black neighbor he was "one of the good ones", shared videos of dead Palestinians, put on my "Mission Accomplished" bumper sticker from 2003, turned on my Joe Rogan podcast, clocked out at the racism factory, and drove to the polls here in Whitesville Texas. Brought my wife and kids too. We understood the assignment. We were adulting. We did a democracy. Donald is right behind me isn't he?
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If there's no one around to observe your forced performance of the idealized version of masculinity, can you still call yourself a man?
If a ballot falls into a ballot box, is anyone around to hear it?