Welfare Walking

The beach in this area cannot be accessed by private land. It’s not fair that only the welfare walkers can enjoy the beach.

“Oh, no,” I think as I walk past the public bathroom. “I didn’t take my morning shit.  I hate it when I get distracted. Now there’s an uncomfortable pressure in my bowels and something brown pushing for freedom.”

Earlier this morning Buddy wrote on Facebook, “I’m fatigued from working lots of hours with only a little rest to watch a sports game. I feel like a limp hot dog after working ten hours to support the Democratic lazy welfare folks.”

Buddy got me thinking about my own lifestyle.  Maybe I need to be more accountable for my actions.  I don’t want to add to my overweight, over stressed friend’s poor health.  I have a job, pay taxes, and do not live off the government in the hand to mouth sense, but I’m a big fan of former Idaho Democratic Senator Frank Church and former Idaho House of Representative Nicole LeFavor.  Right there that’s a big red flag.  Somehow I must be mooching off the system, making my friend work extra hours.  There’s got to be something I can improve on.  Then it dawned on me.  Maybe Buddy is overweight because he won’t compromise his Republican small government principles for his health.  A simple example would be state owned land or state funded projects that people walk on.    Buddy always reminds me that the benefits of small government are greater than the practices of Democratic big government.  I’m sure this applies to over-bloated big government expensive walking budgets.  Just as I decided to revise my walking habits, the Colvils drove by.

The Colvils live up the road from me.  I am one of three or four of their closest neighbors.  They own a large swath of land between the East Village and West Village.  The property has a conservation easement and there are miles of established trails surrounded by a barbed wire fence.

I frantically waved at the Colvils. They stopped.

“Hey Mr. Colvils, this is Mark, your neighbor down the street.  I’m going to go on a  Republican walk.    I need to find some private property big enough to get the heart rate going.  My home is right across the street from your forest.    Now I know a lot of Republicans who can’t afford miles of private land for walking rent a small piece of property at the gym called a treadmill.  I find that TV’s and walls cannot soothe my soul like the sight of a deer or a living forest.   I promise to keep on the established trails.  I’ll even pay you a couple of bucks for wear and tear on the forest.”

Mr. Colvils looks irritated.  “Leave my miles of forest alone.  If I catch you on my forest I’ll have you arrested.” He drives away.

Disappointed after the Colvils conversation I decided to head out on my walk.  I got to the edge of my white picket fence gate.  I reached out with my big toe.  I hesitated.  I figured as soon as it touched the public sidewalk, I would crumple over in guilt and be ravaged by unpatriotic emotions like a baptist with a broken down car who walks into a bowling alley to use the pay phone.  The baptist knows his guardian angel will leave him at the door but he wants to get home to see his family.  I stepped onto the sidewalk.  Surprisingly my big toe didn’t burst into flames and I didn’t start sobbing about being a bad bad Republican sinner.

This brings us back to that uncomfortable feeling in my bowels which now takes on the animal spirit of a turtle.   I walk into the nearest shop.  The bathroom sign reads: “for paying customers only.” I pull out my wallet.  I have $30 cash plus my debit card.   I buy an Americano handed to me in a to go cup.  The destruction of a tree and $2.50 is well spent for a privatized shit even though the public bathrooms are free and a disposable cup would not have been wasted.

Continuing the walk I notice some garbage.  I am not going to throw it away in the public trash can but choose to carry it home to dispose of in a patriotic American fashion.  The three beer bottles and one used condom become cumbersome.  I see a Romney Ryan sign in a yard.  My initial reaction is, “Thank God for a Republican walker.”  I knock on the door.  I  hear several locks unlock.

“Hello, I noticed your sign.  I too am a Republican walker.  I don’t want to burden the taxpayer with three empty beer bottles and one used condom.  Can I give you this trash to be disposed of in a privatized manner?”

The woman glances at me, then at the condom and back at her five blonde blue-eyed children.  In a nervous tone she says, “If you don’t get off my property I’m going to call the cops.”

I drop the the trash and run.

At the beach big waves are breaking and the harbor seals are barking.  I’m tired.  I want to sit down on the public bench or stretch out on the public sand.  The only private space I can find is a restaurant that luckily has a deck with an ocean view.  I look over the menu and see that there is nothing organic or local.  I decide to get a baked potato because Idaho is a Republican state.  I don’t understand why big farms tend to vote Republican.  Big farms are synonymous with big government support.   Shouldn’t agribusiness farms support the Democratic Party?  Small local farms are synonymous with no government or small government.  Republican walking is one thing but I don’t know if I’m ready to eat a big agribusiness Republican diet.    I’m just going to enjoy my potato and hope that the cheese and sour cream covers up the taste of fertilizer, pesticides, GMOs, hormones, antibiotics, and illegal migrant workers.

I leave the beach disappointed.  The beach in this area cannot be accessed by private land.  My feet miss the feel of the sand and the splash of the water.  There’s got to be some way for a one-percenter to buy up some oceanfront property, then charge us ninety-nine percenters a small fee to walk on their beach.  It’s not fair that only the welfare walkers can enjoy the beaches in this area.

I start my trek home midday underneath the blazing sun.  I become insanely thirsty for some water.  I stop at the gas station convenience store.  A bottle of flavored water costs three dollars.  Refreshed, I round the corner to see a family in nice Gap clothes, obviously lower-middle class.  They are lined up in front of the public drinking fountain.  I mutter, “Fucking free loaders.  They can afford Gap clothes and probably have cable TV but can’t buy water.  That woman, who calls herself a mother, needs to get her tubes tied if she can’t provide water for her kids without government assistance.  It’s that family’s welfare walking antics and a socialist-leaning walking government that is destroying this country.”

I yell,  “Victory to the Republican walker!” as I march down the street.