Tuesday night the girlfriend unit and I went into DC for a Vivaldi concert at a lovely 19th century Anglican church.

But my navigational skills were not up to par and we ended up at the wrong place. Finally got to the church twenty minutes late. We thus missed our intended 630pm show and had to wait to see the 9pm show. Naturally, we headed to the closest bar.

I won’t name the joint, as the old fashioned was good and the service was excellent. But there was another factor that poked its snout through the otherwise pleasant experience.

When I asked for a list of ryes for my cocktail the host summoned the bar manager who was quite knowledgeable. I picked a Catoctin Single Barrel. After she left the host decided to add to the explanation of ryes. For some moronic reason he said, “All of our products showcase female and minority produced brands.” I responded, “Why?”

He immediately took on the same visage I imagine would be apparent if you tried to teach algebra to an iguana. He spluttered out a croak of some sort and, seeing he was in obvious distress, I gentlemanly decided to polemically kick him while he was down.

“Look, I’m a minority and I want a good rye whiskey, not some affirmative action swill that showcases your paternalistic instincts. In whiskey or anything else, don’t need your crutch.”

He turned away and I thought that would be the end of it. But then my galpal returned from the unisex bathroom after sharing it with a guy and told me about the lavatory indoctrination program. For outside the head, for the length of a rather large wall, she saw this.

That’s only about half of the wall. Other deviant definitions were also up there. It was kind of like a Field Guide to North American Birds, but for pervs.

I found this out because I eventually went to take a picture of the wall for the article that was already germinating in my mind. On the way I also noticed signs that read “Impeach Kavanagh” and “Protect Kids Not Guns.”

Actually, guns get my vote for protection because I’ve never told a gun to clean its room and gone in 30 minutes later and found the room untouched and the gun staring at its IPhone. Guns just respectfully sit there until you need them to pop a burglar or some such miscreant and after the police pat you on the back and you sign annoying paperwork the gun contentedly goes back to its nest, happy to have helped.

Commercial wokery is not just in DC. Here in Annapolis there is a breakfast restaurant on the water that is just fine, except that inside and outside you’re visually assaulted with all manner of Bolshevik agitprop. Whiskey? Breakfast? Is nothing sacred?

It seems not, as woke programming has found its way into places that were heretofore spared, even whiskey bars. Perhaps the new Republican House can pass a bill to send the Marines to such establishments to tear down the offending propaganda and restore the alcoholic status quo. It’s the least they can do.