Imagine yourself as the proverbial frog swimming always leftward in a pot with your fellow Democrats. Although they seem comfortable with the increasing warmth of the water, you are not.

You suspect your boiling point is lower than theirs and contemplate hopping out while still you can. The question you ask yourself now is what will be the trigger.

Will it be when a strapping young male with a ribbon in his hair beats your daughter in the 50-meter dash, and her coach calls you a “hater” for failing to applaud “xem” enthusiastically enough?

Will it be when the leading young light of your party tells your fifth-grader that he has 12 years left to live?

Will it be when you learn your favorite “moderate” candidate hopes to pack the Supreme Court, and you think, didn’t FDR try that?

Will it be when you condemn anti-Semitism only to find yourself, like Chelsea Clinton, being accused of killing Muslims in a country on the far side of the world?

Will it be when you learn that the theater teacher who molested your son had been released – quietly, thanks to union intervention – by his previous public school for doing the exact same thing?

Will it be when your college-educated son ruins Thanksgiving by calling the grandparents who financed that education “white supremacists” for watching Fox News?

Or will it be when you ruin a dinner party by reflexively calling Elizabeth Warren “Pocahontas”?

Will it be when an illegal alien murders your niece, and you refuse to speak out for fear of offending your friends?

Will it be when you quote favorably Barack Obama’s 2008 position on gay marriage – “I believe that marriage is the union between a man and a woman. Now, for me as a Christian, it’s also a sacred union. God’s in the mix” – and are accused of hate speech?

Will it be when you get booed at a PTA meeting for suggesting that vouchers might help inner city kids escape failing public schools?

Will it be when you get chided for questioning whether it makes sense to continue spending $89 million a mile to build a train that goes from nowhere to nowhere – Merced to Bakersfield, to be more precise?

Will it be when your daughter tells you that she is about to abort your only possible grandchild for “career” reasons, and before you can protest, she reminds you it’s her body, her choice?

Will it be when you are met with cold, icy stares for saying the Electoral College makes sense?

Will it be when you refuse your kids’ request to eat at Chick-fil-A, but you can’t remember why?

Will it be when your son’s college expels him without a hearing after his date decides months later that “yes” actually meant “no”?

Will it be when you find yourself scrubbing your social media sites hoping you get to those old Halloween pictures before the local Red Guard do?

Will it be when your Pakistani doctor tells you his idiot son got a diversity scholarship to the same university that rejected your smart, hardworking daughter?

Will it be when you get called a xenophobe for suggesting that perhaps only citizens should be allowed to vote?

Will it be when your sister enters your 8-year-old nephew in a drag competition at a local gay bar and denounces you as a transphobe for questioning her judgment?

Will it be when you have a good laugh reading about the Green New Deal only to find your leading candidates have already endorsed it?

Will it be when the new pastor shakes her head in bewilderment when you say you are having a hard time squaring the killing of a live baby outside the womb with your shared faith?

Will it be when your 16-year-old asks if we fought the Nazis in the Revolutionary War, and you remember the speaker of your party wants the kid to vote?

Or will you continue to stew, thinking dreamily back on those days when your party denounced big government, terrorism and illegal immigration, when they endorsed traditional marriage and recognized the difference between a boy and a girl, and when you were allowed to enjoy a warm summer day without worrying that the world was coming to an end.

When you recall that “those days” were the Clinton years, you snap out of the reverie and hop out of the pot. It is time, you realize, to make new friends.

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