I’ve been called many things in the last half-century. I suppose “shallow’ has gone on the longest, since it’s so clever. Adults still jab me with that mortal Italian dagger wit — I can barely feel the blade filet my … spleen?

I went by “crash” for a time, which was neither derogatory or complimentary. Simply fact that need not be discussed,

“Weird Al!!!  “ as in Yankovic, yelled a few, directly into my face back before perms met a dignified death, or I came to my senses -— actually, just one sense — back in the ’80s. Plus, I favor the singer, I guess, but some didn’t stop to wonder why the real Al was tending bar in North Dakota.

Some big kids called me a greaser while I was watching a Legion baseball game at my usual spot by the fence. It was the early ’60s, and I guess that wearing white socks was cause for ridicule — at least the way they said it. I dress pretty much the same nowadays but in larger sizes.

I always liked Obi Ron Kenobi.

A doctor in Grand Forks called me a “borderline diabetic.” Thankfully not borderline deceased — or pregnant. That would have gotten me one of the good doctors.

Down the hall I was labeled an alcoholic — everybody knew that — by a chain smoking doctor with an office and everything, who gave me an unceremonious diagnosis of death, prontolike, if I didn’t quit drinking. Those options took some heavy thought.

Back in 1969 or ’70, the Fargo Forum described me as “diminutive.” This was before their sports section went all-Bison. Others just called me “short,” and “skinny” before I became tall and a little chubby.

I’ve been referred to as a jerk, a pain in the @ss, angry, compulsive, a pompous @sshole, arrogant, smug, loud, a problem and cocky. You get the drift. Lots of a$$-related stuff.

There was a few good things, too.

Then, the Internet happened, and it was easy to ignore the archaic social sites and use this wonderful new research tool for many projects.

Skip forward to Facebook and the simplicity that allowed anyone with opposable thumbs to publish a blog. It was hard to not at least sign up. Then, I had to shoot off my mouth. Lots of places. It is said that a person should read opinions that are contrary to one’s own, and I did.

Not that I was any angel, but I restrained my language. Mostly. It’s soooo hard. But for every “I do believe you are mistaken, sir, and may need assistance driving your Google machine,” a bombardment of aggressive retorts flew back. At first, the words, if not the message, were recognizable, even the swear words. I’ve been around.

I was a Marxist and a commie, a socialist, a fascist, a lib%@&#, evil and was called stupid in more ways than I thought were possible, but I didn’t need to look anything up.

The English language is a hoot. I have no I idea how it became normal in my head. There. their, they’re — it’s maniacal — and two years of college English in 1974, and 1975 — when Dr. Gresham taught his classes the finer points — have globulated (Urban Dictionary) from hard-fought “A” knowledge into trepidatious instinct.

An incorrect process, I’m well aware, but I do most everything on the fly, so I’m past saving. My participles are hanging like a Trump tie, and I haven’t diagramed a sentence since Nixon was randomly dropping bombs like gum balls.

But I don’t lie. I won’t even lol, unless I actually laugh out loud, which is rare. Not in my nature.

Little anonymous people spit the lie accusation out all of the time, and I barely twitch. But all of the sudden, my name spurred a Google Alert, several weeks after (thanks Google) Rob Port invented a story about me, and my brain went to another level of obsessive brooding and deliberation.

Besides telling me that he knew the substance of a book I spent three years writing better than I, Port called me a crank, questioned my mental health, lied his Chris Christie butt off and stuck to the false story. He’s a phony, and his days are numbered at the Forum. Old man Marcil will eventually step away. Anyway, the coward blocked me from commenting on Sayanythingblog, Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and probably on platforms that have yet to be invented.

That sidebar story is here, if your curiosity bone is tickled. Port is my archenemy and nemesis. My white whale. That’s why his name adds so much to the word count. Depending on the after-death rules, I plan on messing with him after I’m deceased, if possible. Https://www.linkedin.com/post/edit/forum-communications-company-refuses-remove-false-story-ron-schalow

But those series of Port lies aren’t my point. Just context. I didn’t even know who Port was before the libel, but that incident led me to watching his lie-blog, and the cesspool of a comment section, with only academic curiosity in my heart. I swear.

Now, I was seeing words and phrases, on Port’s blog, Facebook and other places that were unfamiliar. Not as complicated as Klingon but built for a purpose. Some people were getting a newsletter, and I wasn’t on the subscription list. All of the silverbacks, picking lice off each others pelts that patrol Port’s Disqus section to scare off anyone to the left of Kublai Khan, were in on the new jargon, and they hate the lernin’ places and all of the edumacated uppity types.

“Hey snowflake, you better run to your save space.” Huh? “Are you having a microaggression or a trigger point, you SJW cuck?” Ich verstehe es nicht sprüche, you wanker!

At first, I would respond like it would matter. A) I don’t run anywhere. B) Wherever I’m standing, sitting or not running is my safe space. C) I only have MACRO-aggressions, and the one thing that ever triggered a “point” was 300 shanks off the tee into the river that gurgled 3 yards from my feet. It happened every time. No. 14 at soul-killing Souris Valley Golf course in Minot.

I imagine that snowflake means someone effeminate and helpless. To those who toss that word in my direction, I say that every woman in my family is far from helpless. The females I’m familiar with are the fierce type.

Maybe you 16th-century royals will get breakfast in bed, as one silly legislator in North Dakota left over from the Spanish American War suggested, or maybe you’ll be cleaning egg yolk and a fork out of your left ear for the remainder of the month. Or if the tone of the request crosses a line, perhaps an oxen-style yoke will knock your brain juice into this century. And yes, I’m advocating violence. Quit being such a snowflake — or get triggered. Whatever.

As for me, I’m slower than a Port and as agile as a Port. Basically, I’m stationery, and my arms can no longer pull of a functional head lock, or and if you need someone to perform a body slam from the top rope, don’t even text. The “very capable” Kenny Jay might still be around, but he took some good beatings, like the Washington Nationals versus the Harlem Globetrotters, so the poor man is ultrastiff. That’s the best scenario for Kenny.

However, I do have an adrenal gland, as far as I know. And if necessary, I would be happy to embed a Ping putter in your a$$, or kneecap a Neanderthal snowflake with my cane. I’m not the one who needs a Glock at the ready while perusing the fruit selection at Hornbachers for Honeycrisp apples. (I’m not the first to paraphrase that sentiment.)
SJW means social justice warrior. OK. So now that’s a bad thing? These people, who peddle that string of letters are the alt-righters, the Steve Bannon’s, the white nationalists and the other types that are tired out, to the point of exhaustion, of hearing about nonwhite people and forever whine about white males not having a parade, although the St. Patrick’s Day parades throughout the country comes pretty damn close, and I’m thrilled for the Irish. I don’t care who has a parade.

If you want a safe space with all white males in the group, pledge to a Young Republicans fraternity, or join one of the thousands of so-called Patriots organizations, the White Nationalists, the Sovereigns, the Oath Keepers, the preppers and the like. Talk about safe spaces. Who are the ones constructing cement-lined holes with sanitation, food, water and guns?

I’ll just watch the end of days from a lib%@#$ lawn chair in my yard. Maybe I’ll have cigarette for the first time in 25 years.

Gated communities must be safe spaces, but I doubt if they will keep the zombies out.

North Dakota just banned “safe spaces,” on college campuses, although I didn’t know we had any. Can’t you talk to a counselor, of any level, without some privacy? The alt-right abhors diversity, but if like-minded people form a club or live as roommates, they go into a state of panic. Every anecdote about something suspicious going on at an elementary school in Alabama, which might be slightly lib&#$@ish, is magnified into a crisis. That’s what scandal producer Rob Port does, but a law to address airy nothingness is going a bit too far.

The Capitol building is the safest of all safe spaces, but I don’t see Becker or Port fussing about it. The gatekeeper, Al Carlson, locks the place down every time he spies someone wearing a mask — or a non-Norwegian, advancing from a mile away.

Rep. Rick Becker thinks free speech is in danger on campuses, I guess. Who knows? Everything he does is a pandering plan. If he really believes the alt-right speech meme, he’s an idiot. Of course, Becker also wants to limit the number of out-of-state students who can attend a North Dakota college. As the originator of the Bastiat Caucus, he really should read more Bastiat.

Ask any of my former college instructors if I had my First Amendment rights violated, which I often applied in their office. Mano a profo. Teachers rule the classroom, unless students are told to open their yap — or a debate was encouraged. Becker went to UND. He should know there aren’t ever hundreds of students locked in padded room with warm pastel colors, listening to Michael Bolton. But the phony right-wing meme lives on.

College hater Port, is so worried about the students Tuesday. But the next day, he calls them snowflakes. He lasted about 10 minutes at North Dakota State University, so who is the weak-minded and frail one? Donald Trump has the shell of an armadillo compared to Port. Robbie has fallen to the point of arguing the merits of each negative letter to the editor, which are piling up, that hurts his feelings. Except mine. In at least three of my letters, I’ve gleefully called him a liar. He had no witty retorts.

It wasn’t that long ago when the Westboro Baptist Church set up shop in front the FargoDome prior to a football game. I didn’t see anyone running off screaming.

Students aren’t sealed in Saran Wrap (suffocation issues) when they show up for college initiation. They are free to leave the campus and experience the outside world. Read. Talk. Observe. Most are carrying devices that can tell them most anything. Information invades each space. They aren’t being indoctrinated, forced to bake pies or enroll in women’s studies or black studies or Native studies, the wicked trinity of right-wing hate of higher education.

Political correctness, and microaggressions. Think before you talk, consider the other person, and don’t be a dick. But the terms were purposely appropriated by Bannon types and then seized on by nitwits like Rob Port. The Ports spread the words to their gullible anonymous readers. Do any of them even know that snowflake has no meaning other than the pile of them in your yard?

I nearly forgot cuck. Supposedly, if I’m white and don’t see everything from the point of my race race and point out that white people have done great harm in this world, you’ve been cuckolded, by the people of different shades. I’m a cuck and a race traitor. Did I mention that flat-out racists mingle with the silverbacks on Port’s blog. If he cares, you wouldn’t notice.

Snowflakes, safe spaces, social justice warrior and the rest, are just the mangling of word meanings by someone like Frank Luntz, to create a short simple fake language of hate, perfect for dim bulb flashcards, that the gullibles could derisively use to attack thinking people.