Category: Opinion

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Full Frontal Cottage

Just now, today, literally seconds before I started writing this very sentence, I heard of a thing called “Cottagecore.”

Apparently that’s when folks are into and promote old-timey chores like gathering berries and making butter by hand and other crafts of that ilk. I think that’s wonderful. Make fun of Portlandia hipsters all you want (I do, that is, make fun of them all I want) but if people like something, let them like it, I say.

What I find fascinating is that there’s a word for this at all. And what a great word! I really dig that “-core” part. I was aware of -core things but not at this level. The very brief research I did on Cottagecore also mentions Grandmacore, Farmcore, Goblincore and Fairiecore. This is fantastic. I mean, come on- how can anyone not find the nomenclature “Grandmacore” fascinating?

It reminds me, in a way, of “Shabby chic,” which a friend told me describes her interior design aesthetic. I mean it reminds me not of the aesthetic itself, but of the nomenclature, the “chic” part. So damn cool. If her distressed entertainment center and tea-stained throw pillows are Shabby chic, then my shelf of Lego mini-figures and poster of Brandon Lee from The Crow could be “Sad Geek chic.” I am being serious here.

And I know “-core” is used for some music styles. “Nerdcore” involves rapping about Star Wars and RPGs. “Metalcore” is heavy metal mixed with punk, and includes sub-genres such as “Mathcore,” “Deathcore,” and “Electroniccore.” I have never listened to Deathcore, (not that there’s anything wrong with it) but I do enjoy doodling the word on bits of scrap paper when I’m on boring conference calls.

Also, and the reason I’m even writing this, the use of “-core” reminds me “-punk.” You’ve heard of Steampunk, of course. That’s an aesthetic design that draws from the steam-powered tech of the late 19th century. In books, it’s a sub-genre of science-fiction. There’s also Cyberpunk, an aesthetic grounded in high tech juxtaposed with dystopian points of view. 

I’d argue that you can create a -punk aesthetic, basically, by picking a particular level of technology, root a world in it, then start telling stories with contemporary themes, challenges, and characters. For example, there’s The Flintstones— that’s “Stonepunk.” You can go even further, by using fictional technologies. The Jetsons, for example. I’d call that “Retro-futurepunk.” 

It’s not just that we’re creating fantasy or sci-fi settings. The idea is that the aesthetic is as much a character as any of the characters. Argumentatively, Game of Thrones could be re-skinned as a sci-fi epic, and the same story could be told. Or Star Trek could be redone as a western. But try re-writing Mona Lisa Overdrive as a tale set in 18th century Japan. I mean, Molly Millions would make a compelling samurai, but you’d lose that cyberpunk theme of humanity evolving itself into extinction.  

Oh sure, a really really good writer could pull it off, I guess, but when we read -punk novels, we do so for the immersion. When we were kids, they told us that books can take us any place we want to go. And -punk novels fulfill that promise by letting us live there (for a few hundred pages). “Mona Lisa Shogun” could be immersive, but I think you’d lose all that cozy existential angst that Cyberpunk offers up for your consumption and pleasure.

Back to -core. All of the above, going from -core to -chic to -punk, lit up my brain as soon as I read the word Cottagecore. So now I have to wonder what a Cottagepunk story would look like. 

Off the top of my head, Cottagepunk would be a world where all technology is rooted in home-style crafts and such. A TV would be a wooden box with a needle-point “screen.” People would create, trade, and comment on bread recipes. Instead of guns, the 2nd Amendment would be about the right to bear pitchforks. Romeo falls in love with Juliet, but Romeo’s family farms corn and Juliet’s farms beets. 

Essentially, I’m thinking the characters from Winnie the Pooh, turned human, and then the plot from Die Hard. Maybe I’ll give it a try, since I like goofing with this sort of thing. I once tried to write a steam-punk-lego-star-wars-zombie story. It wasn’t any good, but it was fun. And that’s all that really matters.

This nomenclature, these -cores and -chics and -punks, they’re interchangeable. You could call it Cyber chic or Shabbypunk or Stonecore if you wanted. Heck, write a novel about an old woman who runs for president on a platform of Make Baking Great Again but she wins by hacking the voting booths and call it “Granniegate: a Gardencore novel.” 

For me, naming that aesthetic, creating the nomenclature, that’s where the fun starts, because then we can start imagining things we never imagined we could imagine before. 

Whoa. Mind blown. I need a homemade cookie and a Juul. 

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Cogito Argot Sum

Nothing exists except as an opinion, and that opinion can only be communicated to people who already get it. If you don’t know the lingo, you can’t know the truth.

Instagram Baddie. A young lady with remarkable skill and patience spends considerable time applying cosmetics. The result is flawless. Impeccable. Instantly classic. She is beautiful, but why? Not to attract a mate and procreate. Not to impress or suppress a rival. Not even take satisfaction in her own beauty and talent, to reflect on her self-worth as a self-realized creature captured in a selfie. No, she does it for one reason only: the lingo.

Incel. A young man, raised in a world of Chads bagging Bettys, is taught that sexual satisfaction is his right. His right as a human, his right as a man, his right as a horny man. But the same world explains to him that rights are just promises and promises are made to be broken. Women, otherwise powerless, deny him what’s rightfully his. So he goes online and ejaculates epithets at the XX species. His seed impregnates other young men trapped in their virginity, and they conceive more hate and vitriol. So what. It’s been happening forever. But now we have a word for it. 

An interesting word, maybe even a fun word. A label, yes, but calling an orange and apple doesn’t make it red. The word is fun to throw around, to say, to pretend to describe.

“I paid for dinner, you should have sex with me.”

“Fuckin’ incel.”

“No I’m not.”

“When you post about it on r/redpill, don’t forget to tell them you took me Applebee’s.”

“Whatever, whore.”

“If you meant to say IG Baddie, thanks.”

“Who’d want to fuck three inches of pancake batter anyway?”

“You did, apparently.”

“Nah, that’s why God invented doggy style.”

“Or maybe it’s so even tiny dicks have a chance of getting in.”

“No, but seriously. Why do you wear so much makeup.”

“Because I want to.”

“I bet you’re pretty without it.”

“I bet you’re ugly no matter what I wear.”

“That’s kind of profound.”

“Thanks. Order me another IPA.”

“Okay.”

“We’re still not fucking.”

“I agree one hundred percent.”

She’s not an IG Baddie. She’s just a woman who wants to eat, crap, screw, and sleep. He’s not an incel. He’s just a guy who wants to dine, shit, fuck, and take a nap. But the lingo is easier to deal with than a supercomplex, ever-changing, often chaotic amalgam of emotions, attitudes, and ethics. 

You use words to say what you’re going to say, and then you use words to say what you said. And usually what you’re going to say is that what you said is not what you were going to say (and then you say what you’re going to say is that what you were going to say is not what you were going to say you said).

That’s hard to keep track of, so lingo. Jargon. Not just words, but words with fuzzy connotations built in so you can connect them up with any context you feel like. Metaphors, inverted. A TikTok Thot sits at home, sipping whiskey, watching the local news on TV. She’s in PJs, in a robe, she’s just had a shower, she spent the day reffing youth soccer. The news is over, she picks up her phone, goes to her bedroom, her dresser, picks out a fun two-piece she got last time she was in Cabo.

You know the rest. Why? Lingo.

That’s character development, right there. I said TikTok Thot, and then I added all kinds of artifacts. Whiskey, the news, PJs and a robe. If I hadn’t used lingo, you would need to know what kind of whiskey, what was on the news. Instead of building the girl detail by detail, I carved away at the lingo, detail by detail. 

And that’s me writing, but we do it all the time, in real-life, in real-time. We use lingo to cast the characters, stock the scene with props, and develop the script.

A guy who loves playing Super Smash Brothers picks up a controller and gives it to the nurse assigned to monitor his vital signs. Wait, wait, what’s the significance of Super Smash Brothers, are we to understand a theme of violence, or a theme of violence as entertainment? Why is it a controller, is control going to be a theme? Why is a nurse monitoring him? Are we supposed to draw a connection between his video-game character’s “hit points” and his own “vital signs”?

That’s too much to think about after just one sentence, and to keep track of when the next sentence recontextualizes all of that stuff. Even for the guy, who likes Super Smash Brothers because he’s good at it. And for the nurse, who has been secretly practicing SSB just for this day.

A gamer grabs a joycon and hands it to his caregiver. She proceeds to whip his ass.

Lingo. Now we can point out that the game was a melee game. That the kid’s on life-support. That the nurse forgot about the monitoring screen. This could have happened: while they were playing, one of the alarms went off. She could have let the kid die! No, he didn’t die, but he almost could have died. Well, no, that alarm goes off all the time. The nurse knows, without even thinking about it, when it matters and when it doesn’t. If the kid had really could have been dying, the nurse would have been able to tell, even as she was concentrating on executing a sweet combo.

It’s a joke that no one gets. The game and the caregiver had a shared experience that existed entirely devoid of the bits and pieces that define them as people and define their relationship. An alarm went off and it didn’t matter (he was fine; stupid machine) and it also didn’t matter (no one was paying attention). 

By using lingo, we can ignore the “could’ves.” I’m explaining all of this via fictional examples, but this is real life too. There’s a real human being having an ironic interaction with another real human being. But they don’t think of themselves as a collection of their individual traits. They think of themselves in easy-to-think-about words, special words.

Lingo, jargon, argot. Slang, if you want. This is why you’re not allowed to use the N word.

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“Reporting” on Instagram Posts

I read Google News every day. Mostly I read the “For You” section. And what’s great is how Google remembers which stories I click on, then populates the next day’s offering with more of the same. For example, I clicked on a story about QE2 once a few months ago and now I get to see what England’s Head Figure-Honcho is up to (today, she sent someone a birthday card).

I guess I clicked on a link to a story about a scantily clad woman on Instagram once several times, because I get more than a few of those on the daily. I’m not ashamed of having clicked a link that said “Penelope Pendulous Wows In Micro Bikini Festooned with Diamond Dust-Crusted Macaroni Noodles!” I really like macaroni.

But they’re always the same, these “stories,” and I guess this counts as journalism? 400 words that describes what some celebrity I’ve never heard of (cause I’m almost 50) is wearing, followed by the picture being described… Listen, I know, it’s my own fault. Probably instead shoulda clicked on that article about What The Queen Said To Her Dog (And It’s Not What You Think!)

Anyway, this morning as I sipped my Irish coffee (heavy on the Irish) and got caught up on the latest wearing of a see-through mesh espadrille I decided maybe instead of ridiculing this reportage, I should embrace it. In fact, I should write it. But since the scantily-clad female angle has already been covered, what I’m going to take care of is the average Josephine angle.  So here we go. Name changed just in a case more than one person reads this.

Sandy Persephone Coos Confidence in Cornwall Casual

Sandy Persephone metaphorically killed her followers today in a black-and-white striped T on top snug mom jeans. The raven-haired teenager who might actually be in her twenties struck a jaunty pose with one yellow-and-white checkered Vans shoe in front of the other, sans socks of course—teenager or twenty-something, she sure as fartz isn’t a Gen X-er clinging desperately to a mistaken sense of 90s fashion! 

The beauty from Brittania, who “like[s] to document when [her] outfit consists of anything more than joggers/old pyjama bottoms because it’s such a rare occurrence these days” wore her Levis-UK shirt tucked in to her Topshop denim, and posed for the mirror-selfie with one hand casually popped into a pocket, thumb-out style, while the other hand held aloft her oversized smart phone. Also on display, various shades-of-red nail polish, a rouge rainbow of sexy innocence.

Sandy, head tilted to the side, cocked one eyebrow as she looked at herself on her mobile screen, and completed her l’arrangement-de-visage with a contented grin. Her long and styled-straight tresses back-framed cherubic (this a compliment not a euphemism) cheeks. Although little skin was revealed, Sandy managed to keep an even complexion despite a global lock-down on outsidedness.

No make up was in evidence, and certainly none needed, save for a subtle shade of orange-ish pink on her lips, which may not have been lip-paint at all but just the lighting. Sandy’s natural look perfectly balanced her choice to go without any noticeable accessories- neither watch nor bangle mangled the effortless grace of her appropriately-shaped wrists.

The fit female chose to pose in front of charmingly-decored divan, complete with Ikea IE duvet in rose (or salmon, maybe terracotta? Whatever, it matched her nails) and a splash of chaotic colors on a Primark throw pillow. Behind and above the bed on a dark blue wall, art prints in black and white from Desanio. The photo, taken as aforementioned via mirror, was composed with a third of the shot featuring the white wall on which the spotless mirror hung. Lighting was provided by outdoor sunshine wafting through translucent white curtains.

The photo garnered over 300 likes in just an hour, about 100 times more than this reporter gets for his own Instagram posts.

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Politically Motivated Noir Parody in Ten Tweets

(posted on Twitter 12/6/2017 

Sitting at my PC and trying to decide if staring at Twitter or the half-empty bottle of gin on my desk was going to do me more damage. The bottle used to be half full, but at 9 am I realized the day wasn’t even half-over yet, so I improvised. #TweetNoir 1/10

Then she walked in. And by she I mean another tweet from one of them liberal types with the long legs and a longer list of grievances. Actually, I’m guessing about the legs. But never mind. She had something to say re: Trump #TweetNoir 2/10

“Look here, dick.’ She cooed. “How’d you know my name?” I snarled. “It’s written on your door.” And she wasn’t lying. There on the cheap glass in cheaper acrylic, “Dick Detective, Twitter Addict.” Not the pithiest, but then I’m not even sure what pithiest means. #TweetNoir 3/10

“Alright,” I burbled. “Let’s hear it.” She took a seat in my feed and let loose. “Mueller’s got Trump’s bank records, see. The big cheese is about to get busted or embarrassed.” She smiled the smile of a thousand lethal retweets. #TweetNoir 4/10

“What do you want me to do about it,” I said. “I’ve got, maybe, a 100 followers, 150 tops on a good day if I lure a few ‘bots with gratuitous hashtags.” #GratuitousHashtags, by the way, is my middle name. I guess Mom was on some major painkillers when I was born. #TweetNoir 5/10

“Every little bit counts,” she said. “Get creative. Write one of those stupid #TweetNoir things. Make it a thread. Go crazy, ya lazy, privileged, upper-middle class white man.” That one wasn’t written on my door, but she had me pegged, but good. 6/10

“Fine. I’ll see what I can do,” I managed. I started rummaging in my desk for a pencil and the legal pad I’d swiped from a lawyer’s office, which is just the kind of self-indulgent irony that kept me from getting too many followers in the first place. #TweetNoir 7/10

“That’s all I’m asking,” she coo’ed. Again with the cooing. Either she was trying to seduce me or I was in serious need of a thesaurus. Most likely the latter. I’m good with words like I’m good with booze: the more I have, the less I know what I’m doin’. #TweetNoir 8/10

She got up and left, which is to say, my feed was starting to fill up with video game tweets and dad jokes. It ain’t easy, being a Twitter addict. Hence the booze. But then nothing that’s easy is worth it, according to some crap I read in a book once. #TweetNoir 9/10

Speaking of booze, I took another look at that bottle of gin. Now that I had a case, something to occupy me for a few minutes, the bottle was starting to look half full. I guess I’d call that a win. #TweetNoir #ImpeachTrump #GoMuellerGo theguardian.com/us-news/2017/d… 10/10

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The Gun Industry Rubs Another One Out

A long time ago I read a book about a guy who could stop time (The Fermata by Nicholson Baker). Everyone and everything would freeze, including clocks, and he could walk around and do whatever he wanted. Mostly what he did was grope women and masturbate.

I think the book was supposed to be an extended metaphor about fantasizing. Basically, if someone fantasizes about you, sexually, do you have a problem with that? If a man stops time, grabs your boob, then starts time and never says a thing to you, did he do anything wrong?

Of course he did, some of you say. It depends on if I find out, others say. And the idea is, telling people they’ve been violated is a kind of violation, isn’t it. In the real world, someone could send you a text message, explaining all of the things they think about doing to you. That could be a terrible message to receive.

And while you can make an attempt to block such messages, you can’t block a person from having thoughts. Your only defense against that is to not think about it yourself.

gunder2Here’s my point: I think the vast majority of gun-loving Americans don’t want to think about all of the very rich people getting very much richer from gun sales. They’d rather think about patriotism and rights and freedom instead of imagining a man in a lounge chair in Acapulco masturbating with a fist full of hundred dollar bills.

The trillion-dollar arms business doesn’t care even a little bit if Joe Smalldick in Buttcrack, Idaho is able to exercise his rights, defend his family, or get drunk and kill a couple of brown people.
All it cares about it how profitable mass-shootings are.

And it’s using these gun-lovers to make that money. Money that gun-nuts might otherwise spend on improving their communities, getting educations, paying for healthcare. Can you imagine what life would be like in Buttcrack if, instead of spending millions of dollars on guns, they instead spent millions of dollars on their grade schools?

My point is: if I found out an industry was metaphorically rubbing up against me on a subway and getting off, I’d be mad. Someone needs to tell this people they’re being used.

Then again, the only people they listen to, at Fox, are sporting some turgid members themselves.

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Father’s Day—Ok

me-n-the-kid,-footI’ve never been one much for holidays. It’s not like I hate them, as such, I’m just usually not all that enthused about whatever is being celebrated. I know other people get excited, though, and I’ll join in; I’m a cynic, not a curmudgeon. But for me, by myself, holidays are usually a take-em-or-leave-em kinda thing

This is my first Father’s day as a father. It kind of snuck on me, and true to form, all things considered, it’s really no big deal. I mean, I love my son to pieces. He’s almost nine months old, and he’s wonderful. He’s hilarious and demanding and beautiful and exhausting. All those cliché’s about having kids that make you roll your eyes? Yes, apply them to me. I like being a dad. My boy pushes me to my limits, and those limits have even been exceeded at times, but I’m a dad and that’s a permanent part of my identity now, a title I wear with pride.

I don’t think the title is worthy of a whole heck of a lot of celebration, is all. I mean, every day is a celebration, right? Something like that. As I write this, I’m watching the kid, via baby monitor, roll around in his crib as he decides to wake up. When he does we’ll have some breakfast, play for a bit, take a nap. Then we’ll eat again, maybe run to the store for a few errands, sleep one more time. Another feeding, make dinner, give mommy a hug when she comes home from work. Take another nap, etc.

It’s the etc, you see. Being a father, to me, is the etc. I don’t see the point of celebrating et ceteras. I breathe, and when I go for a run a breathe harder, and when I go to sleep I breathe deeper, but do I celebrate the wonder and joy and pleasure of all that breathing? Nah.

For what it’s worth, along with this being my first father’s day as a father, it’s also my 45th father’s day as a son. I love my dad to pieces, too. He’s my best friend, and like my kid, he’s hilarious. More cliché’s: if my son is going to turn out like anyone, and he turns out to be like his grandad—intelligent, thoughtful, creative, hard-working—well then, I’d say I was an exceptionally successful father.

I totally respect everyone else who wants to celebrate fatherhood today. Whether it’s a companion holiday to mother’s day, or because, let’s face it, not all dads are awesome and the ones who are deserve recognition. I get it and I will click like on all of the Facebook posts. But for me, it’s just another holiday. Just another day. I guess I’m saying I’d rather be happy every day, and when I look at ym son, and think about my own dad, I realize that I am.

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Make Conversation Great Again

I posted this as a “Note” on Facebook, since I easily have a better chances of someone’s reading it there than here. But I’ll post it here too, for posterity).

Having a discussion—or an argument—with someone, without mutual respect, is just fighting. And in my opinion, pointless; you might as well be two dogs barking at each other.

And if you’re fighting with someone who is pro-Trump, or pro-Sanders, or pro-Cruz, or pro-Clinton, you will only further their resolve. That’s right: you will make them even more sure of themselves, more dedicated to ideals that you oppose.

So, if you know someone who is for a candidate you despise, you need to start the conversation with respect. This doesn’t mean you have to respect the candidate: just respect the person you’re talking to.

“But how can I respect people who don’t respect me?” Good question. But the people you’re fighting with are asking that question too. Maybe if you offer some respect, some of them will do the same. Eventually.

(This won’t be at all easy, and I’m not saying I am even up to the task myself. Which is why, when I can muster the restraint, I choose not to speak at all. I don’t want to add fire to the bellies of those I disagree with.)

Things are more heated than ever in all of the political discussion forums. From Facebook to Reddit to the comments section underneath any news article. It is up to us to see to it that these discussions yield positive results.

Find common ground. Ask questions. Cite your sources. Re-read everything you write several times before clicking that “post” button.

(And by the way, this is not directed at anyone in particular, for anything you’ve posted or said. I’ve had this on my mind for a while, and I’m still trying to find the best way to articulate it. Nor am I the first person to have these ideas—I’m just trying to put them in my own words.)

Thank you for reading the above.

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The Mean Tree

What if there was a tree in a town square that had branches on it such that, when the wind blew just right, it sounded as if the tree was saying “You fat ass.”

I mean, that would be hilarious, right?

Well, maybe not for someone who was self-conscious. Or someone who had been called that before by someone with hatred in their heart.

But lots of us would laugh.

Some of us would wonder if the tree grew like that naturally, or if there was some designer involved.

Some people would want to chop down the tree. Or at least prune the branches a bit.

There would be arguments. “If you don’t like it, don’t walk by it.” “Don’t go outside when it’s windy.” “Maybe lose a little weight?” “IT’S JUSTA TREE.”

I don’t want to be too philosophical here, but it seems to me that until you’ve been inside someone’s heart and felt their pain, you can’t really tell them they’re not in pain. Doesn’t matter if they hurt because a real person said nasty things to them, or if it was just the sound of the wind in a weird tree. Pain is pain.

Which is not to say I would want to cut down the tree.

Rather, I’d like to get people to start talking, maybe see if we can shift our perspective.

You know, it’s not that the tree sounds like a person. It’s that those people sound like the tree.

Somebody called you a fat ass? That’s not a person talking. That’s just some wind blowing, and it has nothing to do with you.

This is easy for me to say, I know—no one has ever called me a fat-ass. But I’ve been called other things.

I try to remember that, 99% of the time, when a person opens his mouth, he’s only describing himself.

“You’re kind of stupid” really means “I’m kind of a jerk.”

“You fat ass” is the tree’s way of saying “I’m a weird tree.”

And the only real reply to that is “Okay.”

So, maybe, the next time someone says something hateful, instead of yelling back, try saying “Okay.”

Cause then you’ve told them you understand that they’re just being a jerk. And while it’s not necessarily “okay” to be a jerk, some people just need to be allowed to work on their issues on their own.

Who knows what kind of pain is in the heart of someone who feels the need to shout “I’m a big jerk” all the time.

At least we know the tree isn’t in pain.

It’s just a tree.

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Writing Exercise: Narrated Monologue

The following needs work, a lot of work, but will do for now, as an experiment. More or less I wrote the parts in quotes first. Then I decided to write the rest as if someone was listening and disagreeing. I think it’s a fine exercise, and one I can do again sometime, as it establishes conflict and tension, the basic energy which moves any story. Where it goes wrong is when the narrator starts talking back, instead of just describing. I maybe got a little too close to the subject matter. Oh well.

A big ol’ fat guy, too fat for the little suit he was wearin’, lookin’ like a punk except for punks is skinny little shits and this guy wasn’t skinny, like I said, but you know, he had that punk attitude, call it punkitude, like he was always sniffin’ back and snortin’ cause he thought the world belong on his pinkie ring (he wasn’t wearing no rings, that’s just a description) walked up to the mic and tapped like he wanted to make sure it worked even though we all heard what the last asshole had to say, and then he says:

“We are looking at this from the bottom-up; let’s look at it from the top-down.”

And I’m all like, what the hell? Bottoms and tops and shit like that, this is a government proceeding, this ain’t no philosophy class. Damn it I hate liberals, I really do, like they went and got an education, big whoop, and now they want to use it all the time. God damn. So then he goes:

“Why is that, in this country, a black un-armed teen can be gunned-down without consequence, while a group of armed white men can get away with pointing guns at police?”

Because of statistics you fat dumb shit heel. Looks like you picked the wrong set of classes at that college of yours. Look at the numbers, they’re right there for anyone to see them. Black crime, black on black crime…when was the last time you saw a bunch of white kids walking along the street and another white kid drives by in a mini-van and opens fire? never, you dumb sumbitch.

“Because there’s no single unifying voice for black teenagers. There IS a unifying voice for armed white men.”

Oh really? You’re saying there’s one voice who speaks for all the god-fearing men out there who respect and practice their second amendment rights? You mean, besides Jesus? Don’t get me started, brother. If Jesus was alive today, hell yeah he’d carry. He’d take one look at your suit and your education and your holier-than thou attitude and he’d go money-changer-crazy all over again.

“And it’s as simple as that. What one voice will tell the most people how to vote in the next election?”

Well, you got me there, pardner. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Which is typical– y’all open up your big fat mouths and puke words all over the place and you don’t say a god damned thing. For all your feel-good and do-right and peace-love-bullshit, you sure do confuse the ever loving crap out of folks. And I’m thinkin’ you do it on purpose.

“I’m all for fighting police corruption, dismantling institutional racism, creating better gun laws, and raising the standard of living for all Americans.”

Better gun laws? I think you mean fewer gun laws? Gun laws don’t save lives, jack-ass. Men with guns save lives. Its a war out there, fella, and you don’t fight wars with regulations and rulebooks. You do it with hit lead and body bags. I see a guy with a gun, I don’t care what color he is, black, hispanic, asian, doesn’t matter. I don’t discriminate. And as for police corruption? You’re going to say some guy who beat up a junkie without reading him his rights represents all of the cops who put their lives on the line to protect us every day? Go ahead, get rid of the cops, you idiot, and we’l;l see how long you last without a gun on your hip.

“But the number one most destructive force in this country, right now, is the voice that lies.”

At last we agree. Well, no we don’t agree, but at least I know what you’re saying now. You are the liar. You’re the one spreads sedition and infamy, to quote the founders. But I’d be flattering you if I told you that you’re the most destructive force in this country right now. I don’t want to give you that satisfaction. Nah son, the most destructive force is the liberal conspiracy to turn all of us into welfare queers and drug addicts. It’s the government that forces us to pay taxes so shits like you don’t have to work. Its socialism, and taking away our guns, and lesbians and comedians on TV bringing up ‘facts’ as a a way to trick people into thinking they’re the problem, not the cure. Well don’t worry, dumbass. I know which side of the fence I’m standing on.

“Want to fix America? Find a way to silence the liars.”

Amen, brother. Now shut up.

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What Are You Reading, Stupid?

Lest you start thinking you’re an intelligent person with discerning tastes, let me remind you that you’re not. You’re an idiot. And I know you’re an idiot because Slate and Flavorwire told me so. They didn’t use the word “idiot” but then they didn’t have to, because people who are intelligent and have discerning tastes can read between the lines. People like me!

So, you’re an idiot. You read Young Adult fiction, Donna Tart, and nothing else. I put those last three words in italics to emphasize them. You should be ashamed of yourselves, and your idea that these books are the kinds of things that represent literature today is completely wrong. Don’t you know that YOU are contributing to the death of literary criticism by buying books that other people will also end up buying?

I mean, look at you. With your education and your job and your family and your, ugh, life. Are you on Reddit? Are you even on Tumblr? Then how in the HELL do you even KNOW what’s even REAL? You wouldn’t know good literature if it glued you to a chair and made you watch Shakespeare. Did you know that Teller of Penn & Teller fame is currently directing The Tempest? Of course not: you read Divergent and The Goldfinch instead of listening to podcasts. Scum.

You are scum. You read your books (plural!) and listen to your music (collective plural!) and watch your television shows, when the real, actual critics don’t even own a TV. Who has time to own a TV when there’s Netflix and Hulu Plus and Amazon Prime subscriptions to maintain on laptops? Who has time for, what are they called, sports? Who has time for sports when the World Cup is on in bars that sells beers you haven’t even heard of?

I’m avoiding the H word, because it would hurt your feelings, but I am so tempted to use it. You know the word I mean. Rhymes with “dipster.” You dipster. I haven’t found it yet, because I only read websites even I haven’t heard of (like Flavorwire), but I know there’s a website that describes how my calling you the H word means I’m an H word and admitting I’m an H word means I’m not really an H word and so you are one.

The point is, you have got to stop. Stop reading things that you enjoy. Stop getting so much satisfaction out of your entertainment choices. Stop being an idiot. Literary criticism (which, for the purpose of this essay and the ones on Slate and Flavorwire is the same as writin’ reviews, even though it’s not at all, even) will die if you don’t start reading… well, reading things that are so good no plebian like you would read them.

And if literary criticism dies, how will people adequately contextualize my essay about some essays that were about reviews of books that these essays say you shouldn’t read? Idiot. Scum. Dipster.

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