Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [11]
I came back alive. I chose not to give up. I wanted to give up, badly. Instead I got fit. If you take a punch at me now, I can assure you three things will happen: (1) You will break your hand. That’s the beauty of spending just a half hour a day on your muscular-skeletal structure—it turns into kryptonite; (2) I will fall on you. I’m still working on my core and balance issues, so after you slug me I will tip over and crush you. It won’t be on purpose, and while you are attempting to breathe, please know I’ll be doing my best to get off you; (3) My SEALs will spray mace or their own homemade concoction of jalapeño spider spray directly into your eye sockets while you are on the ground. I hear this is excruciatingly painful. As a pacifist, please accept my apologies in advance—and never, ever use violence against me or anyone else again. (SERMON ALERT)
Only cowards use violence. They are afraid that their ideas will not win out in the public arena. They are weak and they are worried that the people will see their weakness. They are threatened by women, gays, and minorities—minorities, for chrissakes! You know why they’re called “minorities”? Because they don’t have the power—YOU do! That’s why you’re called the “majority”! And yet you’re afraid. Afraid of fetuses not coming to term, or of men kissing men (or worse!). Afraid someone will take your gun away—a gun that you have in the first place because you’re… afraid! Please, please, for the sake of all of us—RELAX! We like you! Heck, you’re an American!
One night in Aventura, Florida, I took my new buff self, along with a friend, to the mall alongside the William Lehman Causeway to see a movie. A young guy in his thirties passed by me, and as he did, he had this to say: “Shithead.”
He continued on his walk. I stopped and turned back toward him.
“Hey! You! Come back here!”
The guy kept walking.
“Hey, don’t run away from me!” I shouted louder. “Don’t be a chicken. Come back here and face me!”
“Chicken” is a dish not well served to the gender with testosterone for their fluid. He abruptly halted, turned and headed back toward me. As he got five feet from me, I said the following in a gentle voice:
“Hey, man—why would you say such a thing to me?”
He sneered and steeled himself for a fight. “Because I know who you are, and you’re a shithead.”
“Now, there you go again, using that word. You haven’t the foggiest idea who I am or what I’m really about. You haven’t even seen one of my movies.”
“I don’t need to!” he replied, confirming what I already suspected. “I already know the anti-American stuff you put out there.”
“OK, dude, that’s not fair. You can’t judge me based on what someone else has told you about me. You look way smarter than that. You look like a guy who makes up his own mind. Please watch one of my movies. I swear to God, you may not agree with all the politics, but I can guarantee you that (1) you will instantly know that I deeply love this country; (2) you will see that I have a heart; and (3) I promise you’ll laugh quite a few times during the film. And if you still wanna call me a shithead after that, then fine. But I don’t think you will.”
He calmed down, and we talked for at least another five minutes. I listened to his complaints about the world, and I told him that we probably have more that we agree on than disagree on. He relaxed even more, and eventually I got a smile out of him. Finally, I said I had to go or we were going to miss our movie.
“Hey man,” he said, holding out his hand to shake mine. “I’m sorry I called you that name. You’re right, I don’t really know anything about you. But the fact that you just stopped and talked to me after I called you that—well, that’s got me thinking—I really didn’t know you. Please accept my apology.”
I did, and we shook hands. There would be no more disrespecting me or threatening me—and it was that attitude that made me safe, or as safe as one can be in this world. From now on, if you messed with me, there would be consequences: I may make you watch one of my movies.
A