So much for ESL

Juan’s Tale: Strummin’ Through the Woke Word Minefield

The sun was fryin’ the desert like a cheap taco, castin’ shadows like lies across the cracked streets of Woketown, a town so warped it made my skull ache worse than when I tried pronouncin’ “Worcestershire” in English class.

I’m Juan, fresh off the border, 5 year’s worth of English clawed from greasy diner menus and night school flashcards, each word a brick in my new life. But now? The woke crowd’s flipped the dictionary, turnin’ my hard-earned words into a funhouse mirror where nothin’ means what it should.

I stood in Woketown’s dusty square, clutchin’ my busted guitar—strings wobblier than a drunk on a tightrope—and strummed a chord so sour it could make a mule bawl. My heart’s iron, sons, but my tunes are a trainwreck, and today I’m guidin’ you, my brood, through this minefield of woke words, where truth gets gutted and manhood’s under siege.

This is 4 Da Boys, and I’m Papa Juan, strummin’ a tale of battlin’ linguistic lunacy to be a real man—tough, honest, ready to take a hit for what’s right. Grab a seat by the fire, boys, and let’s wade into this swamp.

Woketown was a battlefield, sons, where words were weapons sharper than a switchblade. The woke had twisted language—callin’ moms “birthing people,” crooks “justice-involved individuals”—to cage truth and club folks like me, who’d barely mastered “hello” before they yanked the rug out. A think tank called Third Way, a bunch of lefty suits with sweaty palms, was beggin’ their own to ditch 44 of these nonsense terms to save their hides from gettin’ trounced at the polls. I’d name the culprits, roast their idiocy, and show how this word game’s a minefield that attacks honest folks, divides neighbors, and buries common sense.

My guitar wailed, off-key as my English, but I was marchin’ through, ready to stand tall like a man who knows his worth, scars and all.

Segment 1: The Word Police and Third Way’s White Flag

I’d come to Woketown to build a life, my English hard-won through sweaty diner shifts and nights wrestlin’ with verbs that twisted my tongue like barbed wire. But the second I hit town, the Word Police—smug types in rainbow vests, clutchin’ clipboards like they were handin’ down divine law—swarmed me. “Say ‘birthing person,’ not ‘mother,’” one hissed, eyes glintin’ like a vulture sizin’ up roadkill. I laughed, strummin’ a chord that sounded like a cat in a blender. “I spent a year learnin’ ‘mother’ to honor my mama, and now you want me to unlearn it? What’s next, callin’ a taco a ‘culinary equity wrap’?”

They didn’t crack a smile. These clowns were dead serious, rewritin’ reality to suit their fever dreams, and if you didn’t play along, you were canceled, doxxed, or fired faster than you could say “adios.” But get this, sons: even their own kind’s had enough.

Third Way, a pack of lifelong Democrats, dropped a memo called “Was It Something I Said?”—a whiny plea to stop their rivals by ditchin’ 44 woke terms that make ‘em sound like they’re beamn’ in from Mars. They’re beggin’ their party to talk like humans, not like professors high on their own jargon. Why? ‘Cause words like “birthing people” don’t just confuse—they alienate regular folks, the ones who’d rather grill a burger than parse a sociology thesis. Callin’ a mom a “birthing person” ain’t inclusive; it’s erasin’ her heart, her role, like tellin’ me my guitar’s just a “stringed noise device.”

Third Way’s wavin’ the white flag, sons, ‘cause their word games are losin’ ‘em the fight, and I’m standin’ here, laughin’ at the irony with my guitar wailin’ like a coyote with a hangover.

Segment 2: The 44-Term Gauntlet of Nonsense

Wren, the Word Police chief—a weasel with glasses thick as soda bottles—thrust a list at me, them 44 terms Third Way wants buried, split into six buckets of pure, unfiltered nonsense. I read ‘em aloud, my accent thick, sarcasm thicker, like I was recitin’ a script for a dystopian comedy written by a roomful of caffeinated lunatics. “Buckle up, sons,” I said, “this is gonna make your ears bleed.”

• Therapy-Speak: Words that scold you for not bein’ sensitive enough, like “privilege,” “othering,” “triggering,” “centering,” “holding space,” or “progressive stack.” It’s like they’re handin’ you a tissue and a guilt trip, whinin’, “Cry harder, you heartless brute.” I’d rather strum my guitar till it screams than whisper “holding space” like some wannabe shaman. My mama didn’t raise me to grovel for imaginary sins.
• Seminar Room Language: Jargon that screams, “I’m smarter than you, peasant.” Think “subverting norms,” “systems of oppression,” “critical theory,” “cultural appropriation,” or “Overton Window.” Sounds like a grad student tryin’ to impress his cat, not a man talkin’ sense. I learned “freedom” to mean liberty, not a lecture on “decolonizing” my damn tacos.
• Organizer Jargon: Bureaucratic babble like “radical transparency,” “small ‘d’ democracy,” “barriers to participation,” “stakeholders,” “food insecurity,” or “housing insecurity.” Callin’ hunger “caloric scarcity” don’t fill my belly, and I ain’t callin’ my landlord a “housing access facilitator” just ‘cause you say so.
• Gender/Orientation Correctness: Terms that spit on biology and tradition, like “birthing person,” “pregnant people,” “chest feeding,” “heteronormative,” “patriarchy.” These ain’t inclusive—they’re erasin’ moms and dads, like tellin’ me my sister’s just a “gestational unit.” I learned “mother” to honor the woman who raised me, not to play your word roulette.
• Crime and Immigration Jargon: Words that soft-pedal truth, like “justice-involved individual” for a felon or “undocumented immigrant” for someone here illegally. It’s like callin’ a thief a “resource redistribution specialist.” Truth gets lost in the shuffle, and I ain’t relearnin’ English to coddle crooks.
• Racial Justice Jargon: Terms like “white supremacy” (slapped on everyone), “racial equity,” or “decolonizing,” accusin’ folks of bein’ villains just for existin’. It’s not about fixin’ wrongs—it’s about dividin’ neighbors, makin’ us snarl like dogs over a bone.

“These words are a red flag, Wren,” I said, strummin’ a chord that’d make a dog howl. “They don’t unite—they alienate, like you’re tryin’ to make me learn English all over again just to keep up with your nonsense.” Third Way’s memo says it plain: this jargon’s a loser, pushin’ away folks who just want straight talk, not a lecture.

Segment 3: The Destruction of Wordplay

I faced Wren’s crew, their clipboards gleamin’ like guillotines, ready to chop me down for sayin’ “mother” instead of their woke gospel. Why’s this word-twistin’ so damn destructive, sons? ‘Cause it’s a weapon, sharper than a scorpion’s sting. The woke use terms like “birthing person” to rewrite reality, turnin’ a mom’s love into a clinical footnote. It’s like tellin’ me my guitar’s just a “vibration generator”—it strips away meanin’, heart, truth.

This ain’t about inclusion; it’s about control, paintin’ folks like me—conservatives who love family, honesty, and plain speech—as backward bigots for usin’ words that made sense a decade ago. Say the “wrong” word, and you’re canceled, shamed, or fired, like a man caught stealin’ in a town with no mercy. It’s a trap, sons, a power grab that divides neighbors, pits brother against brother, sons against their father.

When you can’t say “mother” without fear of a mob, you ain’t free—you’re in a cage, and the woke hold the key. It’s divisive as hell, makin’ us fight over words instead of facin’ real problems. And it’s a loser’s game—Third Way’s memo proves it. Their jargon alienates the very folks they need, like tryin’ to sell a steak to a vegan. Callin’ a felon a “justice-involved individual” don’t fix crime; it just makes folks roll their eyes and walk away.

Regular people—your buddies, your cousins—want truth, not a word salad tossed by a sanctimonious chef. I strummed a gritty chord, my voice low. “I learned English to speak truth, Wren, not to play your game. You wanna erase ‘mother’? I’ll take the hit—call me out, fire me, I ain’t bendin’.” 

Truth, like the fire in my gut when I think of my mama? Family, like the sister I’d fight for? That’s the compass through this minefield.

Segment 4: Compassion, Not Control

Wren’s face twisted like he’d bitten a lemon, but I kept talkin’. “You claim your words are compassionate, Wren, but real compassion don’t need jargon. It’s in the heart—folks givin’ to the poor, liftin’ the weak, not ‘cause some rule says so, but ‘cause it’s right.” I thought of my mama, feedin’ neighbors from her tiny kitchen, no government forms required. That’s the conservative way, sons—helpin’ ‘cause you choose to, not ‘cause a bureaucrat’s got a whip. The woke want to play savior with their “equity” buzzwords, but it’s a sham, accusin’ folks of sins they didn’t commit to push a narrative that fractures us.

Real men don’t need “birthing person” to honor a mother’s love; they show it with actions, not lip service. I remembered the stories I’d heard, even from far-off lands—men who’d die for their beliefs, like those Muslim terrorists. They know their “why,” takin’ the ultimate hit for what they hold true. Whether their belief is a Lie is irrelevant. “What’s your hill, Wren?” I asked. “Control? Power? ‘Cause it ain’t compassion.” My guitar wailed, a soulful, off-key riff, like a battle hymn gone rustic. 

That’s a mark of a man, not bendin’ to woke wordplay.

Segment 5: Navigatin’ the Minefield to Manhood

The Word Police closed in, ready to haul me off, but I stood my ground, guitar in hand, like a man facin’ a storm. “Here’s the play, sons,” I said, voice steady. “This woke word mess—‘birthing people,’ ‘privilege,’ all of it—is a minefield. It attacks truth, divides us, spits on what’s real. Third Way’s right to ditch ‘em, but the damage’s done. You navigate this by holdin’ fast to what’s true: honor your mama, speak plain, stand tall. Be brave, like facin’ a mob for sayin’ what’s right. Be honest, like lovin’ your family without fancy terms. Be sacrificial, ready to take the hit—losin’ your job, your name—for what matters.”

I strummed a proud, wobbly chord, the sound echoin’ like a lone rider’s farewell. “Strum your own tune, sons, even if it’s as bad as my guitar. Stand as a man—tough, honest, fierce. Work hard, give freely, don’t let woke words cage you. And if you hear my guitar, don’t laugh too hard—I’m tryin’, just like you.”

Woketown’s streets fell silent as I walked away, the Word Police frozen, their clipboards useless. I’d faced the minefield, kept my words, defended the truth. Facts (remember the phrase, “Facts don’t care about your feelings”).  “This is Papa Juan, signin’ off 4 Da Boys. Keep fightin’, keep lovin’, keep standin’. Be men of truth, not pawns of the woke.

See you on the trail.”Royalty Free Music from Tunetank.com Track: Breaking Sky by Nick Froud https://tunetank.com/track/3136-breaking-sky/