I drive a Ford. It’s a small Ford Figo car, that Ford started as its version to take on the entry-level segment here in India. It looks ordinary, so much so that relatives have known to reject buying that model because it looked ‘too ordinary!’. But it drives like a beast: I have done more heavy duty driving in it in the last five years than I am sure many people have done in a bona-fide SUV; and it still behaves as pretty and butch as ever. When I bought it, I could barely afford a car, but I got my hands on a kind that has an Air-conditioning system I have seen many marvel at. The car has always been an integral part of my growing up as a man, in confidence, in not ‘being a jerk’, and in being functional yet beautiful. That’s how I came to love Ford: it placed a premium on the drive-quality more than anything else, and more importantly, it always had a stable of cars that made me aspirational, that made me want to be materially successful and enjoy the ownership of one or many.
But the company disappoints me now: I look at its stable and I feel a strong pang of disappointment and dejection in my system, like there is nothing to live for, nothing to look forward to, nothing to aspire to. It has a stable of cars that point at an objective of pandering to folks with a fancy taste as opposed to a prior objective of catering to folks that took the business of driving seriously. It has gone on to become a fancy company for fancy people as opposed to a workers’ company for meaningful people. It has become symptomatic of the New America as opposed to the Old America, where functionality ruled, where products never needed the help of media-bytes or perverse journalism; where products sold without the glitter and pomp of what’s known as European, yet delighted customers all around the world who looked for a pair of jeans they could wear to a party, and also work the farm in: they looked for a Levis 501, a pair that has all but disappeared from Levis stores all over here; they looked for something quintessentially American. But alas, the ‘quintessential American’ was usurped by the likes of Hillary long ago. It was usurped when she told the world that America was not about working class people who liked to hit the dirty roads in a growling road-bike or a groaning pick-up, but about having a husband rape some helpless employee and go on to rule the world; about stealing and plundering the money meant for earthquake victims in Haiti, and the disabled in America; about ruining the better part of the world to divert attention from the very workers who built what’s alluring about America, the very workers who now struggle for survival; about setting up a system that gets women raped and intimidated yet pretends to be a sentinel upholding women’s rights.
I support Trump because he was understandably raised in the American way, wisely enough to know that it’s okay to boy-talk about women as long as you don’t force yourself on them; to know that it’s good to care about your health but important to not lose your love for that decadent burger or those sinful fries; to know that it’s good to hob-nob with the plundering elite yet not lose your connection to the folks who grow your food; to know that what works is good old functionality, and that dicey effectiveness rather than a gob full of talk and a pimp-car as show; to know that great sex comes with getting a woman to fall for you—for your wealth, your style, your taste, your position, or whatever—but not from forcing yourself on her; and most importantly, to know that the greatest joy in being a man is to be able to get your hands on some pu$$y yet knowing all along that we always have, always been, and always be, pitiful slaves of pu$$y divine.
Go American; Go Trump! (…and let the world get its Ford and Levis back!)
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