Shortly after the last presidential election, my wife, Rahnee, resolved to emerge from her paralyzing funk by joining the millions of others who were performing acts of political resistance in their own little way. So she went online and ordered a bunch of plastic bags for picking up dog poop. Emblazoned on each bag is the face of Donald Trump.
A big box arrived of what must’ve been a thousand bags. That’s how pissed off Rahnee was. And here we are more than a year later and we’ve still got a whole bunch of bags left. We’re hoping the Trump on the dog poop bags will be around a lot longer than the Trump in the White House. Regardless, whenever the nightmare is over, we intend to donate a bag to the Trump presidential library. We’re still deciding whether or not it should be a used bag.
The bags bring a new element of fun and satisfaction to the daily routine of walking our dogs. We’re not just cleaning up after them. We’re also making a statement. When the bags are full, they’re quite symbolic.
But I’m not deluding myself. I know that, in the long run, acts of resistance are ultimately judged according to their effectiveness. Thus, even though picking up dog poop in Trump bags makes us feel righteous, it provides only symptomatic relief while doing little to attack the underlying disease.
No matter how much poop we defiantly scoop, it won’t stop Trump’s dastardly agenda from moving forward. Too bad resistance isn’t that easy. Wouldn’t it be great if every time somebody unfurled and used a Trump dog poop bag, it knocked some sense into the presidential cranium, until he became transformed, like Scrooge? Oh, how I wish our bags had that kind of fantastic voodoo power—except that in this case it would probably be called doo-doo power.
I’m thinking that instead of dropping bags into the designated city receptacle, like a conscientious citizen, I should send them to Washington, like an even more conscientious citizen.
It’s a sad reality that our poop bag protests are too silent and solitary to make a real difference. I know I must do more. It’s my duty to God and country. I must find ways to unleash the full power of the bags as agents of social change.
So I’m thinking that instead of dropping full bags into the designated city receptacle, like a conscientious citizen, I should send them to Washington, like an even more conscientious citizen.
Or maybe I can organize my neighbors and we’ll all hold a vigil of some sort. But rather than raising lit candles in the air, we’ll all raise full Trump dog-poop bags. Or maybe I should save up a pile of full bags, dump them in front of the White House door, set them on fire, ring the doorbell, and run.