Stealing Hats from Fascists

There are two things I know with absolute certainty: Avril Lavigne is dead, and if you’re wearing a MAGA hat, I’m gonna find a way to spit in it.

This Halloween, in the spirit of being spooky, I went to get sushi in a full Wednesday Addams getup. I had purchased a black, collared dress from the children’s section of Walmart, and by six o’clock, I was beginning to wonder at what point in the evening I would give up on keeping my ass covered.

My two housemates and I got the special “tea table” at my favorite sushi place; this meant we got to sit on pillows and take our shoes off. Needless to say, we were thrilled–I’m a sucker for good theme adherence. A glorious start to a glorious night, right?

Not exactly, dear reader. Not exactly.

This story is both a triumph and a tragedy. Lucky for you, the triumph comes first.

The waitstaff were all in costume, which I loved–again, theme adherence. There was a tiger, a dragon, a bottle of sriracha, and a “nerd” (quotes because aside from being an incredibly lazy costume, “nerdy” dress is very in.) There was a busser, however, who seemed to be without a costume. He had only an apron and a hat.

This made me sad; this was one day of the year where dressing ridiculously was accepted in the workplace. Halloween is rad as hell, even for us lowly minimum wage workers.

This pity lasted five seconds–the length of time it took for him to get close enough for me to read his hat.

Mother. Fucking. MAGA.

For reasons that I’m sure cause you as much mental and physical pain as they do me, I lost my appetite.

I am in Boulder, CO–the HIPPIE CAPITAL OF THE US–and there in front of me, holding a tray of half eaten raw fish, is a man wearing a MAGA hat.

I ordered a glass of wine and began scheming.

I will spare you the hour my roommates and I spent eating edamame and deciding if we should take the hat with force or with wit. But trust me, the conversation was seriously entertaining.

We decided on our plan of attack, and then we waited.

The fascist in question did not come close enough for me to speak to him until we had our check. By this time, I had consumed no less than three glasses of wine, and more than my body weight in self-importance.

He came to take our dishes. And it was so on.

“Hey, are you all set with these.”

“I am, but I was wondering–are you always an asshole, or are you just dressed as one?”

He takes a beat, “Both.”

“Huh. How bout that.” Another beat. “Can I hold on to the hat for a bit?” I smiled as sweetly as I could manage.

“Sure! Just give it back when you leave.”

We each spit in it–good hefty spits–with the intention of giving it back. But no matter how much we wanted his head to be covered in body fluids, we couldn’t do it. We could not allow this horrible thing to continue existing, no matter how much spit it could hold.

We payed our check and took the hat with us–under a jacket. We threw it out a block away. Yes I know that is environmentally irresponsible, but it was justified.

Oh, dear reader, how I wish this night had ended here, with this glorious win for the little guys. But sadly, it did not.

I went to my partner’s house with the intention of going with him to a Halloween party in a few hours. Here, I continued to drink with a stomach that had been too sad for sushi. This, my lovely angelic, reader, is an example of Poor Decision Making.

The night came to its dramatic climax when I lit the wrong end of a cigarette.

You read that right.

There is a unique shame that comes with this specific error–one you can’t come back from easily. It is the epitome of white-girl-wasted. It is an unacceptable mistake. My skin crawls even now.

What’s worse than this, and oh yes it can get worse, is I was outside with my partner’s best friend. Yes. Take in all the secondhand embarrassment.

Fortunately he’s a good guy; he laughed and told me not to worry. But unfortunately, I value his opinion frightening amount. I was mortified.

As an attempt to regain my coolness, or perhaps, gain it in the first place, I gave him a black eye.

With makeup–he was dressed as Rocky. It was actually pretty sick. BUT BACK TO THE BLUNDERS.

After spewing a few more stories at a table of my boyfriend’s closest friends, I went to lay down with him, and never got back up.

We never did make it to the party.

But hey, I stole a hat from a fascist, and that’s gotta count for something.

I love you, dear reader. Make good choices.