Furthest Right

Stop yer cryin’!

OK, don’t stop your cryin’. I don’t care if you cry. Crying can be good, after all. It cleans out the eye sockets and soothes the driest of eyes. You’re left with red and bloodshot eyes, but that’s what attracts the babes, these days: men exploring their sensitive, feminine sides, etc…

But it doesn’t, really. Women think they want non-threatening, soppy, weepy, feminine men. And so men become non-threatening, soppy, weepy and feminine in order to get laid. And then they don’t get laid. Instead they get to hear women calling them “needy”, as well as being non-threatening, soppy, weepy and feminine. Which is not the desired result, and leaves little to be desired.

So what have we got here?
Women dissatisfied with men, the way men are. Men dissatisfied with themselves, the way they are. Women dissatisfied with the results of their dissatisfaction, and men dissatisfied, period.
Well, that’s certainly better than the old way, isn’t it? It’s modern, and progressive, and that’s just gotta be good. Everyone dissatisfied. Everyone no longer what they were, in favour of what they have become, through the evolution of dissatisfaction.

So we find ourselves dissatisfied with each other, and with ourselves, while others feel nothing but dissatisfaction with us, and with themselves. Grrr! Dammit! No wonder it’s become so impossible to have any kind of productive, calm, reasonable interaction with anybody else.

But once in a while, and more often lately, than previously, I find myself running into people who are taking their first, tentative steps toward second-adulthood. Or first-adulthood, if all they have ever known is PC dogma. The racist peeks out. The pugilist. The heterosexual. The would-be Christian. In short: those troll-like neanderthal, hate-filled, bigoted people that everybody loathes, including themselves, and wishes for the destruction of, on the happy revolutionary road towards The Great Uniform Utopia.

Tentative, it is. A small, quavering voice, quiveringly venturing not-very-racist feelers, to gauge the result upon the possibly-threatening listener. And when the Wrath Of No-God fails to descend upon them, slightly more robust not-really-very-bigoted opinions slightly-less-timidly follow.

I smile at these mini-events. And engage gleefully.
What? You’re not racist? What’s the matter with you? Everybody is racist!”
“You’re a bit anti-islamic? What? Why only a bit? What’s wrong with you?”
“You aren’t entirely comfortable with public displays of sodomy? What’s your problem? If others can openly offend you, then you can openly offend them!”

I used to weep for the past, which was not all that glorious, and not all that great.
Because, as flawed as it was, it was nowhere near as flawed as the present.
Then I got sick of weeping and became enraged, instead.
Then I grew weary of being so often enraged, and grew philosophical, instead.
Then I grew scornful of philosophy, and fell asleep, instead.
And dreamed a better dream.
The dream became the present, and here I am inhabiting it.
And I’m still not dead, stabbed, shot, or imprisoned.
I still have a wife, a home, masses of animals, birds, trees, flowers, vegetables and interests. Golly! I never expected any of this!

Stop yer cryin’!
Just be what you are, where you are, and let the rest of them self-immolate.
There’s nothing you can do to help. Nothing you can do to stop it.
Help yourself, stop yourself, instead, and when you’ve successfully done that, you may be mildly shocked to discover, that you’ve succeeded in doing the impossible:
You’ve done your part, the part nobody but you could do.
You’ve become satisfied, within a world of dissatisfaction, without really even trying. And, best of all: whether you had planned on it, or not, the others – or some of them, anyway – will slowly begin to notice…

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