Call me weird, but I see God in a well-stocked American grocery store.
I’m on vacation now, and I can’t help annoying my wife with random shopping cart additions: Ranch Wavys, Dove Milk Chocolate bars, ice cold single-serving packs of Caesar salad, exotic hard cheeses, four different vintages of Chardonnay I’ve never tried, husked sweet corn on the cob that she refuses to believe will be full-flavored but I buy because I marvel at the convenience of the thing: imagine an agricultural capitalist out there making it easier for a family to enjoy corn on the cob without wrestling with those weird things on the end of the cob. Someone’s idea means I’m sitting by a pool with hot buttered and salted corn on the cob?
I love this country.
And, really, it’s not like we’re talking about a rich man’s pleasure. The miracle of American capitalism is that any two people who pool the minimum wage and share an apartment can share this modest treasure. We’re not talking about Venezuela or North Korea here, folks. Competition brings variety, and a reasonable price. We eat well here, and while we’re eating, we can dream up new pitches for the folks at Shark Tank.
Do you think anyone gets this?
I really wonder. Even among conservatives, people who should understand this, we’re facing a choice between a woman who thinks your children should be products of the state and a guy who has employed his children in a home grown empire. (Each kid runs a corporate barony dad built.)
Chelsea, on the other hand, is the product of two people who have achieved wealth through piracy, through advancing in the culture of government piracy. “Vote for me, and we will tax the Trump-like to death.”
If you can’t see the difference between these two families, I invite you to consider a grocery run in Venezuela and the one I recently enjoyed in Temecula, California.
If you don’t see the difference, I’m begging you – please ask God to show you the way.