I can rant and rave and snap as necessary. I can speak low and slow (like when you smoke pork ribs and brisket for the Kingsford Invitational) and that's probably a good time to back away from me and leave the room.
But the worst, and I mean absolute worst display of anger is when I speak to my victim using my mother's tone of voice. All I have to do is channel my inner Beatrice Morris, and I can flay the skin off of any miscreant stupid enough to start with me. Oh yes, I have used the MTV (Mother's Tone of Voice) on certain judges over the years, especially while I was a redhead; it is unfortunate that on a certain day in March of this year, I was much too ill to summon my mother's spirit when I needed it most. But while I am retiring from the practice of law, I can still write, I can still speak, and I still live in a country where freedom of speech counts for something.
And that's all I have to say about that, except to add that I continue to work on that anger thang, and I am stupendously, almost hysterically angry at President Obama. If he were here right now, in MY house (incidentally, the White House has not always been white, but it has always been "The People's House") I would have to ask him, respectfully, what the fuck was he thinking of, negotiating with lying scumbag terrorists? I would tell him:
I am an American, second generation on my father's side, third generation on my mother's side. I believe this is the greatest country in the world. I love having a United States passport, and I cry during the "Star Spangled Banner." (Yes, I really do leak tears before every Orlando Magic game.)
Terrorism is not an abstract concept that can be brushed under the rug with fancy words and unenforceable treaties. Make no mistake about it, Iran is a terrorist state and they hate us. We the people have had enough of terrorist attacks on American soil. You need to fix this, you really do.
Michael Opperman is the face of he American victim of Islamic terrorism. Pay attention, Mr. President, because Mike's fate is what you have condemned us to, a world in which the bad guys win. Google him to learn more about those terrible last minutes, about his wife and children, about the worst thing that can happen to people who only deserved to live long and happy lives together in the land of the free and the home of the brave. And then, if you still don't get it, I want you to realize that the entire Islamic world is laughing behind your back.
Just to clarify (because there's always one jerk who takes criticism of a black president in the wrong way), I'm not a racist (and you're not black, anymore than Halle Berry or Bob Marley. You're biracial and should be proud of that fact. But that's another blog post.) I am a realist, and even if you had purple skin covered with green polka dots, or were as fishbelly white as me, I would still be angry. Beyond angry. Apoplectic. Enraged. Infuriated. Livid.
I just want you to realize, with every bite, that the only things I got to prepare for Mike during the five years we worked together were cookies and an occasional cake. Don't choke, Mr. President; just don't veto the Senate.