It was a morning like any other. However, a grumpy shout pierced through the tranquil silence.
“Margaret! Come look at this,” a stout middle-aged man beckoned as he read the daily papers, reclining on his favourite velvet armchair.
“The Shlimmaps were able to pass a bill for the legalisation of Mutwood. It’s a dangerous hallucinogenic! I can’t believe there are so many reckless delusional folk supporting it. Don’t they worry about their children? It’s outrageous!” He singled out a line with his pudgy finger, spittle flying everywhere.
“I mean, can you believe the nerve of these people? They are so clearly wrong! They are going to drag the country down!” Margaret rolled her eyes as she prepared for another one of the man’s ‘righteously indignant’ tirades.
His face red, with a gleam of sweat covering his balding scalp, he huffed and puffed, breathless from his merciless onslaught of insults. With one last huff, he got up from his chair and stomped off. No doubt to cool his head, or to heap his ideologies on another poor soul.
Gazing at her husband’s retreating figure, she could only shake her head. Sometimes she could only wonder why she married him. Such a kind and thoughtful man; a man who would stop his car to help an old lady cross the road. Yet, when it came to politics he would burst. “It’s important,” he said. The rules and policies that govern our society—there’s simply too much at stake to be soft. “Give a step and they’ll take a mile.”
Relying on this system of deeply-rooted beliefs from his youth and a skull as thick as he was wide, this impenetrable fortress would judge and crush anything that went against his view. Yet with all his big and “right” ideas, no one would listen. After all, who would listen to a person who called them stupid?