When I was 15, I landed a job at Baskin-Robbins on Beechwood Road in Summit, New Jersey. Honestly, I don’t remember how I got it. Maybe I walked in off the street. Maybe I found it on the high school job board—back when that meant actual bulletin boards with 3×5 index cards thumbtacked to cork.

The owner, Sy Nankin, was a trained engineer who’d traded his slide rule for an ice cream scoop, trying to build a better life for his family. He took a liking to me. Maybe it was because we shared a religion in a town where that was rare, or maybe it was because I wasn’t afraid to hustle. Sy taught me how to scoop a perfect 2.5 ounces, how to make a milkshake (tip: use semi-frozen milk), how to portion tubs, and how to count change—because back then, cash registers didn’t do the math for you.

For me, it was the perfect job. I got to work around my favorite food, ice cream, and talk to people all day—ideal for an extrovert. The pay was $1.50 an hour. A single cone? Just 25 cents, tax included. That meant you had to sell six cones to earn an hour’s wage. Today, cones go for $4.60 and minimum wage is $15.49. That’s only 3.3 cones per hour. If you’re wondering why the math doesn’t feel right, welcome to the broken reality of wage stagnation. But that’s a rabbit hole for another post.

We had fun, too—especially when Sy wasn’t around. We made Jack Daniels milkshakes and rum-infused Daiquiri Freezes. High school acquaintances became close friends. (Shoutout to Judy, Kevin, Larry, Craig.)

We also spoke our own language. A black-and-white shake? Vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup. A brown cow? Root beer with chocolate ice cream. A dusty road? Sundae with chocolate syrup and malt powder.

But the phrase that stuck with me was “86 that.”

One day, we got our usual delivery of ice cream, syrups, cones, and paper goods. I—yes, it was me—dropped a tub of ice cream onto a sleeve of cones, crushing them. Sy was not amused. He called me a klutz and said, “86 the cones.” I blinked. “What?” He sighed and said, “Don’t you know what ‘86’ means? It means get rid of. Throw them away.”

Which brings me to today.

Recently, former FBI Director James Comey posted a photo on Instagram of seashells arranged to read “8647.” The caption? “Cool shell formation on my beach walk.” That’s it.

But MAGA-world exploded. Fox News howled. Comey’s being accused of calling for the assassination of Donald Trump. The Secret Service—presumably at Trump’s prompting—opened a criminal investigation.

For context: “86” is diner slang for “get rid of,” and “47” refers to Trump as the 47th president. So “8647” translates loosely to “get rid of 47.” Not a threat. Not a call for violence. Just a political opinion.

The irony should hit you like a melting scoop on a hot summer day. This is the same man who encouraged chants of “Hang Mike Pence,” who regularly suggests his political enemies are traitors, and who traffics in violent rhetoric as part of his brand. Yet here he is, weaponizing the federal government to chase down someone for posting a photo of seashells.

And Comey, disappointing as it is, took the post down.

He should’ve read my last blog. The only way to deal with a bully is to confront him. Punch him in the nose—metaphorically speaking.

Luckily, Trump’s reaction gave us the perfect response. Buy a baseball cap embroidered with “8647.” You can find them on Etsy. Not only does it send a message to your fellow resistors that they are not alone, it also subtly trolls the very people who tried to turn a beach walk into a felony.

I’ve been wearing mine for weeks. So far? Plenty of smiles, a few compliments, and zero confrontations. I even chatted with a guy in a MAGA hat at the airport—he had no clue what “8647” meant.

So go ahead. Buy the hat. Wear it. Be visible. Stand up for free speech, for reason, and against bullies.

Sometimes, the most patriotic thing you can do is “86” the fascism—and look good doing it.