You are about to be re-directed to the new home of The United Pro Choice Smokers Rights Newsletter at http://www.smokersclubinc.com
You enter the restaurant from your parents past, the decades swoosh away like the tide on a smooth, twilight glowing beach.
The counters, the booths, the cook behind the slide with the paper hat, all reassuring you of the normalcy of the world. The bottomless cup of coffee that you know will haunt you later is welcomed. The food stained laminated copy machine menus, with Print Shop gifs of restaurant related themes, sits lightly in your hands. Terry or Carol or Martha ask what you would like today, poised with the order pad and pencils their mothers before them used.
The American Dream, the "Mom and Pop" establishment based on a service industry long forgotten by busy people in their mad haste for cookie cutter subsistence and the bottom line of their stock statement. Built by strong hands, sanded, painted, molded into something beautiful and lasting. Gentle hands, hanging curtains, sewing red aprons and baking pies.
As generations flourished, and families passed down these small businesses, the descendants were secure in knowing that they owned their business. They would pay Caesar his due, but still retain the control over their creation.
"Do we paint white this year or stick with the old beige, Martha?" asks George.
"Beige, it's easier to cover over the same color." "Do we allow smoking?" asks Martha.
He replies, " We always have honey, I guess we could reserve the last six booths for non smoking folks but you know we'll never keep them full. We already have a waiting line every Sunday after church gets out."
She pertly replies, "Okey Dokey Darlin'."
Thus ends the big corporate meeting of the year. Print out a few signs on the kid's computer and the restaurant policy is all set.
Enter Emperor Bubba and the world wide reach of his partners in crime. They are the politically correct unstoppable force bent on removing every freedom of choice issue from the world's inhabitants.
Goodbye last refuge of the American Dream. Farewell to small business ownership. It all belongs to the government now. They'll let you work for them if it suits them. They will let you eke out a meager existence on your Daddy's property as you turn away old friends and family with government policy, instead of the good old common sense that built your legacy. You have lost it all, every freedom your family fought and died for in every war you were ever called upon to maintain personal freedoms and the American Dream.
I'll miss you battered parking lot that ate my truck muffler in 1975. Adios to the single occupant rest room with the real toilet paper and the blue Rubbermaid plastic trash can with missing lid. No more bad homefries when the Tuesday brother takes the Sunday shift. I yearn for the coffee grounds at the bottom of my cup when Dad tries to help the girls. I miss my newspaper, and ashtray, and being able to rest a while during my busy day. Everything is gone, buried under a trash pile of government regulations and statutes and laws. It died, piece by piece and we never even noticed.