How can I get along with my Republican brother?
Dear Dale:
I’m a liberal. I vote Democrat, march in rallies and support the oppressed every chance I get. I belong to Occupy, Greenpeace, Fight for Fifteen, Black Lives Matter and Me Too, even though I’m neither Black nor female.
But my brother doesn’t. He’s a MAGA man. Not only does he support Trump, he has a big painting of him hanging in his living room. Every time I visit, I see Captain Chaos scowling at me. What’s worse, he had it specially done so the eyes follow you everywhere you go. Talk about creepy.
He doesn’t believe in evolution, global warming or COVID. Needless to say, he’s not vaccinated, doesn’t wear a mask and refuses to sanitize. He doesn’t even wash after going to the bathroom. Not even for number twos.
But he does believe in UFOs, QAnon and the deep state. According to him, aliens penetrated the federal government, shape-shifted themselves into positions of power and now kick back by eating children in the basements of pizza parlors.
How serious he is I don’t know since he loves to push my buttons. Always has, ever since we were kids. Told me once mom was going to give me up for adoption if I didn’t eat my peas. Was so scared I became a vegan.
Despite that, I try to be civil. He is my brother, after all. The only one I have. And it’s just the two of us now, ever since our parents died.
So I went to his place for Thanksgiving. Like I said, I’m vegan but I don’t push it on people. Not on Thanksgiving. I let them enjoy their turkey.
I might mention how many pounds of grain it takes to make a pound of turkey and how, if everyone went vegan, we could feed all the hungry children in the world but, other than that, I keep my beliefs to myself.
Have to, since my brother owns an Arby’s. I did picket his place once. It was nothing personal. We did all the Arby’s. But try telling him that.
Anyway, I went there and right away he tried to provoke me. His son had some candies, caramels and mints mostly, so Troy separated them into two groups and dumped a bunch Lego bricks between them.
“Build a wall, Tommy,” he said. “Build a wall.”
But I refused to take the bait. Just sat down on the sofa and tried hard not to meet Trump’s eyes.
Naturally, the game was on. I don’t know which one because I don’t follow football. I don’t like any game in which people get knocked unconscious.
Unlike my brother, who cheers whenever someone gets hit hard.
“Boy,” he says, every single time, “he really got his bell rung.”
His friends, being a bunch of like-minded morons, find that quite witty.
He also likes hockey, although mostly for the fights.
So I just sat there, eating my vegan chips and lamenting the influence of capitalism on pro sports, which made me even less popular.
Dinner was no better. I made the mistake of suggesting that instead of grace, we observe a moment of silence to mourn the millions of native Americans murdered by our forefathers.
“Fuck that,” Troy replied. “We beat them fair and square.”
Undeterred, I bowed my head, all the while trying to ignore the woo-woo-wooing noises he was making.
I can usually block that sort of thing out. Thanks to all the meditation I do. But I was tired. I had gone to an anti-Columbus rally earlier that day and marched with some disabled lesbians. Carried one on my back the whole way as a matter of fact and she was more than a little weight-challenged.
So I snapped. Called him a fascist poisoner of the poor who sold rotten meat.
“Fuck you!” he shouted. “It’s a hundred percent Select.”
“Selected growth hormone,” I replied. “Ground into a slurry.”
That was it. Next thing I knew the table was overturned, a twenty-pound turkey bounced off my chest and my lap was buried in gravy.
I jumped up and we had a huge screaming match about all the issues that divide us: Trump, COVID, immigration, global warming, feminism, gay rights, gun control, abortion, racism, the death penalty, political correctness and whales. Needless to say, we didn’t do dessert.
I left feeling bad and not just because I made my nephew cry. Troy is all the family I’ve got and, despite our differences, I don’t want to lose him.
So please Dale, help me out here. How can I get along with my Republican brother when I despise everything he stands for?
Signed,
What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?
Dear WSFAPLAU:
Tell me about it. I have a brother too and we were quite close when we were young. Scrounging through dumpsters for food will do that to you.
As you may know, we grew up largely without parents. Our dad took off when I was two. Right after Dave was born. Felt family life was interfering with his drinking. Don’t know why since it never stopped mom.
Things were pretty tough at first. Mom had to put her career at the hospital on hold to take care of us.
(She changed bedpans.)
So money was tight. Lived on food stamps for the most part. That and donations from the food bank.
Sometimes, she’d get a one-night boyfriend and he’d leave her a tip.
Usually, however, she gave it away for free. Just her generous nature, I guess.
That and the influence of alcohol. Liquored up, she lost control. Would do anyone. Pretty soon guys were paying her in vodka. Saved trips to the store.
Can’t complain. Some of them were pretty nice guys. One of them used to let me finish his drinks. A real gentleman.
This went on for years. Until I entered elementary school. At which point I was adopted by a biker gang and lived happily ever after.
But Dave wasn’t so lucky. He failed the initiation test. Got caught first time he tried to sell drugs. What’s worse, he broke down, cried and asked for his mommy. You’d think a five-year-old would know better.
Sensing that he was not a hardened criminal, the police handed him over to a social worker who, finding mom passed out on the kitchen floor, took him to her church instead — where the ladies auxiliary was having a prayer meeting to decide which godforsaken foster child to adopt.
One look at his big blue eyes, brimming with tears, and they knew.
Praise God! they shouted and, rushing forward, overwhelmed him with love.
By the time mom sobered up enough to collect him, it was too late: he had been kissed and hugged and fed so many sweets he didn’t want to go home.
After that our paths parted. While I was out selling drugs and breaking into cars, he was going to Sunday school, reciting Bible verses and praying.
Got to give him that: he’s good at memorizing shit. No street smarts at all. Would be murdered the minute he steps foot in Mexico. Let alone Detroit.
But he has a real talent for reading books, figuring out what’s important and putting it down on paper. Studying, I think they call it.
So much so they paid for his schooling.
(He’s a bookkeeper. Spends his days tracking the spending of others.)
In return, he married the minister’s daughter, a short fat girl with a lazy eye forever in search of sin.
(She sure found it in me.)
First girl he dated. Only chick he’s fucked.
Within a year, she was pregnant. Celebrated the fact by eating endless tubs of ice cream and gaining fifty pounds.
Pumped out two more. With much the same result. Good thing she stopped at three or she’d be giving the Goodyear blimp a float for its money.
The first two, both girls, were carbon copies of her. Spent their childhood stuffing their faces with sweets and whining about how they’re too fat to fit into their princess costumes.
The youngest, a boy, was a bit better. At least he was quiet. So quiet, in fact, they thought he might be autistic. Wanted to take him to a doctor.
“Why bother?” I asked. “There’s no cure for stupidity.”
(My ex-wife used to say that. Usually after sighing loudly.)
But he grew out of it. Turned into a nerdy kid with big glasses who liked to read. Would just sit there, quiet as a mouse, with his mouth slightly open. Always looked like he was about to drool but somehow never did. Despite that, over time, I actually took a liking to him.
So much so I kidnaped him. Told the principal his parents had been in a horrible car accident and I needed to take him to the hospital. For some reason, the kid was pretty shook up about it. Came out of class crying.
Never mind, I thought. He’ll cheer up once he sees what I’ve got planned.
Figured I’d teach him all the things his dad missed out on: how to break into a building, hot-wire a car and shoplift without getting caught.
Most kids love that sort of thing. Even let him take the wheel for a bit while I snorted coke off the dashboard or cracked another beer.
But you think he appreciated it? Hell no. All he did was cry. That and ask about his parents, whether they were still alive or not. Got so bad I had to tell him the truth, that it was just a white lie to get him out of school.
You’d think he’d be all smiles after that. But he wasn’t. Seemed shocked. Whimpered something about math class and begged me to take him back.
At first, I was offended. I mean, here I am, taking him on the adventure of his life, and all he wants to do is study decimals?
Was so angry I nearly kicked him out of the car. Right there in skid row.
But then I realized he was probably just missing his friends. Probably had some pranks planned. Windows to break or cigarettes to smoke.
So I took him back and said it was all a big mistake. Yes, there had been an accident. But it was the people in the other car who were horribly mangled.
(Typical hospital screwup.)
Then I picked a kid at random and said: “It was his parents,” and took off.
For some reason, my sister-in-law was really upset about that. The lazy eye turned into a stink eye and she banned me from ever being alone with her kids. Said the poor boy had night terrors.
So what? I’ve been dealing with those all my life. All the more reason to get liquored up. Offered to give him a shot from my secret supply — keep a flask in the car — but she wouldn’t have it. Something about kids and brain cells.
So now I just kidnap my brother. The easiest way is to drug him. I call him up, tell him I have something important to talk about — mom, usually — and then, when he’s not looking or in the can, spike his drink. With crank, say. Or acid. He’s a lot more agreeable after that.
(Some say drugs aren’t the answer. I say: you haven’t done enough of them.)
The trick is to get him going. After that, it’s easy. We share the same blood, after all. A river of alcoholism runs through him too. He just chooses not to swim in it. But sometimes, I push him in. What’s family for?
And then I take him out for dinner a la Dale: pickled eggs and peanuts at The Drunken Skunk and super spicy wings at the strip club.
(Nothing stimulates the appetite like a chick shaking her tits in your face.)
Pretty soon, he’s picking fights, pawing strippers and snorting coke in the can. Just like any other guy.
Inevitably, the police get called and I end up in jail.
(Some women just can’t handle their husband disappearing for days.)
But I don’t mind. Way I look at it, if you won’t do time for your family, who will you do it for?
So do the same: drug your brother. You’ll be glad you did. Because there’s no problem so big it can’t be solved by acid. All the bullshit that separates you will disappear and you’ll be left with what really matters: two brothers who, despite everything, love each other. You just got to get high enough to see it. Hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Dale
Hi. If you’ve made it this far, you probably liked the story. So why not check out some others at my Medium page? https://medium.com/dear-dale
