It boggles my mind how amazingly much you farmers and ranchers and other occupants of primarily agricultural areas of the US seem to obsess over what we in other areas think about you.

Here’s a hint: we mostly don’t. We think about other stuff. What we need to do for work today. What we’re going to have for dinner. How to deal with the fact that our pet just died.

We don’t think of you as straw-chewing yokels. We don’t think about you at all.

We don’t have any particular reason to. And you don’t have any particular reason to think of us. But you do. Constantly. You think we’re constantly looking down at you. You’re constantly complaining about the secret conversations we must be having behind your backs, when, aside from a few rude people who we mostly don’t pay much attention to either, the conversations we’re having behind your backs are almost entirely rude conversations about one another.

If you can’t deal with that, then as it turns out, that’s our problem, because you’ve foisted a wannabe dictator who is going to destroy the blue states just because they didn’t vote for him off on us, and who is going to destroy the red states because a lot of them have oil under them or pretty scenery to be strip-mined. And so somehow I guess we have to individually go to you, one at a time, on bended knee, to beg your forgiveness for offenses that we never, you know, actually fucking COMMITTED. And of course said forgiveness won’t be granted, because you don’t forgive unless you’re certain that the offense won’t be repeated, and since you can’t tell what people are saying behind your backs, you can’t be sure that we won’t go back to saying nasty things behind your backs. Right? So it’s safer just to keep hating us.

Well, go ahead. And I sure hope that in three years you can look back and say ‘yup, sure was a good thing, electing Trump’. Because that will mean at least SOMEONE got something good out of it. (Or it will mean that you’re so deep in denial that you can at least PRETEND that someone did. Which at least implies that you’re still alive to do it, which is I suppose at least some comfort.)