Maria Salazar, anti-Chick-fil-A activist is a jack of all genders but master of none.

I was the afternoon bartender at a French-Basque restaurant in the early 90’s.  Most of our customers were staunch conservatives.  Local businessmen.  Few were French, and fewer, Basque, but the food was good and there was small cadre of regulars who could  be counted  on to visit the bar several days each week.  There was one  French-Basque customer who sporadically dropped in.  I forget his name, but the guy was a messy conglomeration of bad clothes and old-world grooming.  Mottled skin, a messy, not-groomed mustache that splayed in all unkempt directions, the Basque was fond of recounting his shepherding days back home when he was younger.  The dude was unintelligible, for the most part.  His English was pitiful, his voice a staccato morass of syllables and grunts.  Once in a while he would speak the Basque language with our owner, but despite my complete lack of knowledge of their language, his lackadaisical attention to proper enunciation was clear to me.

One of the regulars, a self-proclaimed Limey by the name of Vic, wondered aloud quite often about the former shepherd.

“The guy grew up speaking Basque, learned English when he came here, and now he cannot speak either very well.”

This observation came to mind when I read of yet another obnoxious Leftist physically-repulsive slob pipe in about the peril’s of established traditionalism.

“Maria” Salazar, a what-the-fuck-gender lawyer from San Antonio, naturally welcomes that city’s decision to exclude Chick-fil-A from its roster of airport restaurants.

Like so many of her idealogical brethren, Maria is burrowed in an undefined plasma of amorphous self-identification that demands to receive very delineated boundaries of recognition and reward.   Cultural Marxists such as her defer to convenient self-definition as a means of political statement while seeking to reap the concrete rewards of their perfidious label-scorn.



Activists like this habitually flaunt their self-absorbed dissonance in our face as a mark of pride and “power” or whatever it is they call that spell they hold over our common sense and decency.

These types prosper on psychic disruption. But most of the time, while seeking to fulfill multiple pragmatic definitions of social life in aberrant manners, they end up aesthetically sublimating all that they call themselves and causing us a low steady dose of disgust-inducing nausea.