Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Dangerously Sensitive..... Another kick ass piece by Jim Goad.

Dangerously Sensitive

Dangerously Sensitive
Political correctness, that great misguided ennobler/enabler of disgruntled losers and embittered misfits, may have helped pave the way for Bradley Manning and Nidal Hasan to achieve infamy.
Before his decision to start leaking highly sensitive military information to svelte albino panda cub Julian Assange in 2010, Bradley Manning gave his Army superiors every reason to suspect he was a mentally unstable and potentially violent homosexual who was perhaps too emotionally hypersensitive to be trusted with highly sensitive documents.
Before he decided to blow away a baker’s dozen (plus a bun in the oven) with two handguns at Fort Hood in late 2009, Nidal Hasan gave his Army superiors every reason to suspect he was a jihadist turncoat gunning for his 72 virgins because he had trouble getting laid.
(Full disclosure: Not for a moment have I approved of the US military’s foolhardy forays into the Middle East. If I had my druthers, I’d bring all the boys—and they’d all be boys, meaning no girls and definitely no boys who suddenly decide that they’re girls—home to guard the true national-security threat, the one along the Mexican border. Before any of you perpetually sour-pussed pea-picking peckerwoods in the peanut gallery start grousing that I’m some sort of neocon, allow me to sternly instruct you that it’s possible to simultaneously disapprove of Islam and Zionism. It is also possible to deplore American military expansionism while being concerned about the fact that bullied loners and cultural outcasts lurking within the armed forces can throw tantrums and endanger American lives because people are terrified of calling them fags and/or ragheads.)

It appears beyond question that inadequate screening and culturally masochistic Islamo-tolerance allowed Nidal Hasan to claim American lives. Whether you view Bradley Manning as a hero or a heel is largely a matter of taste, but on August 14, he claimed his actions led to “unintended consequences” and had “hurt people.” That comes straight from the little sparkle pony’s thin lips.
By the way, his name is Bradley Manning, and he’s a guy. To claim he’s suddenly a chick is to deny biological reality. Last Thursday, the day after being sentenced to a 35-year prison bid, Manning issued a statement containing the following gems:
As I transition into this next phase of my life, I want everyone to know the real me. I am Chelsea Manning. I am a female….I also request that, starting today, you refer to me by my new name and use the feminine pronoun….
NO, dude. And as a preemptive strike, I also rule out the possibility of ever calling you Bradley Womanning.
Still, several major news outlets immediately swapped out “he” for “she” and “his” for “her.” If you type “Bradley Manning” in Wikipedia’s search box, it redirects you to a page for “Chelsea Manning” that features such head-scratching passages of abject reality-denial as this one:
Manning was by then living as an openly gay man. Her relationship with her father was apparently good….
Long before he was deployed to Iraq and divulged a flood of state secrets, Manning revealed himself to be quite the fragile orchid. When he was 13, his stepmother reportedly observed him running into walls and declaring, “I’m nobody now.” In 2006 he allegedly threatened her with a knife. In August 2009 he was referred to Army mental-health counselors after reportedly crying for hours after watching the films The Last King of Scotland and Dancer in the Dark—a sure sign of mental instability by any objective standard.
In 2009, two months after being sent to Iraq with a security clearance, Manning angrily flipped over a table during a counseling session, damaging a computer. During this hissy-fit, he had to be restrained by another soldier from grabbing a gun from a nearby gun rack and was dragged out of the room. Still, his security clearance remained intact.
Before he started blowing whistles, Bradley Manning was obviously blowing other things. Despite the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy that was in effect at the time, Manning was apparently telling everyone who’d listen that he was gay. Perhaps even though Manning was eager to “tell,” no one wanted to risk the appearance of having asked. He reportedly told his roommate he was gay, at which point his roommate allegedly instructed Manning to stop talking to him. Manning divulged the ins and outs of a failed gay relationship on Facebook. He was even said to have kept a fairy wand at his desk. At a pre-trial hearing, Army officials claimed they were fully aware that Manning had also created a female alter ego he called “Breanna Manning.”
On May 7, 2010 he was found in a cupboard, curled in a fetal position, a knife at his feet after having sliced the words “I WANT” into a vinyl chair. A few hours later, he punched another soldier in the face. Through it all, his security clearance was not revoked. And despite being as obviously gay as a pair of white-leather girl’s ice skates whose glimmering blades are lubed with K-Y Jelly, he was not discharged as the rules would have demanded.
It is unclear whether this was all due to basic military incompetence or an increasingly pervasive phobia about being labeled homophobic. But in the case of Nidal Hasan, the evidence strongly suggests that a fear of being deemed afraid of Islam enabled him to anoint himself a mujahideen and go on a shooting spree.
Hasan was a solitary worm burrowing deep inside a military-industrial apple that refused to stop him for fear of being deemed wormophobic. Despite raising more red flags than a May Day demonstration, he was allowed to operate unimpeded.
There was the PowerPoint demonstration he gave to fellow soldiers that appeared to justify suicide bombings and contained the line “We love death more then [sic] you love life!” There were email exchanges with Anwar Al-Alwaki of which the FBI was fully aware but insufficiently concerned. There were repeated statements to other classmates that gave the impression he felt sharia law superseded the US Constitution. There were public pledges of allegiance to the Koran as he stood in Army uniform. There were classmates who described him as a “ticking time bomb” and a colleague who claimed that no one complained for fear of appearing bigoted. There was his “Allah is Love” bumper sticker and the business cards he handed out that used an acronym to describe himself as a “Soldier of Allah.”
And then there was the shout of “Allahu Akbar!” and an ensuing bloodbath.
Stepping on over a dozen corpses, General George Casey infamously said he feared that “it would be a greater tragedy if our diversity becomes a casualty here.” And despite Hasan’s claim that he went on a rampage to defend the Taliban, the government defined his act as “workplace violence” rather than terrorism.
In its multifariously deluded manifestations, political correctness denies reality and often inverts it. But it is never more dangerous than when it enables physical harm to the masses in the service of preventing emotional harm to the few.

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Sunday, August 4, 2013

The Second Wind of the Cuckold.

I found a dialogue between a fictitious author and his "critic" that really captures the mindless and humorless exchange one finds oneself in after about three volleys in with an anonymous troll. And demonstrates why I have discontinued their ability to shit my blog and use it for toilet paper to facilitate their post shit clean up.  This is from John Irving's "The World According to Garp".  And Mister Irving?  if you find my unauthorized use of your writing....write your cease and desist on a 8 by 10 head shot and address it to Doug @ The Rumble-strip, and it will be removed in record time.

Then Garp got some hate mail of his own. He was addressed in a lively letter by someone who took offense at Second Wind of the Cuckold. It was not a blind, stuttering, spastic farter - as you might imagine - either. It was just what Garp needed to get himself out of his slump.
Dear Shithead,
[wrote the offended party]
I have read your novel. You seem to find other people's problems very funny. I have seen your pictures. With your fat head of hair I suppose you can laugh at bald persons. And in your cruel book you laugh at people who can't have orgasms, and people who aren't blessed with happy marriages, and people whose wives and husbands are unfaithful to each other. You ought to know that persons who have these problems do not think everything is so funny. Look at the world, shithead - it is a bed of pain, people suffering and nobody believing in God or bringing their children up right. You shithead, you don't have any problems so you can make fun of the poor people who do!
Yours sincerely,
(Mrs.) I. B. Poole
Findlay, Ohio
That letter stung Garp like a slap; rarely had he felt so importantly misunderstood. Why did people insist that if you were "comic" you couldn't also be "serious"? Garp felt most people confused being profound with being sober, being earnest with being deep. Apparently, if you sounded serious, you were. Presumably, other animals could not laugh at themselves, and Garp believed that laughter was related to sympathy, which we were always needing more of. He had been, after all, a humorless child - and never religious - so perhaps he now took comedy more seriously than others.
But for Garp to see his vision interpreted as making fun of people was painful to him; and to realize that his art had made him appear cruel gave Garp a keen sense of failure. Very carefully, as if he were speakingto a potential suicide high up in a foreign and unfamiliar hotel, Garp wrote to his reader in Findlay, Ohio
Dear Mrs. Poole:
The world is a bed of pain, people suffer terribly, few of us believe in God or bring up our children very well; you're right about that. It is also true that people who have problems do not, as a rule, think their problems are "funny".
Horace Walpole once said that the world is comic to those who think and tragic to those who feel. I hope you'll agree with me that Horace Walpole somewhat simplifies the world by saying this. Surely both of us think 
and feel; in regard to what's comic and what's tragic, Mrs. Poole, the world is all mixed up. For this reason I have never understood why "serious" and "funny" are thought to be opposites. It is simply a truthful contradiction to me that people's problems are often funny and that the people are often and nonetheless sad.
I am ashamed, however, that you think I am laughing at people, or making fun of them. I take people very seriously. People are all I take seriously, in fact. Therefore, I have nothing but sympathy for how people behave - and nothing but laughter to console them.
Laughter is my religion, Mrs. Poole. In the manner of most religions, I admit that my laughter is pretty desperate. I want to tell you a little story to illustrate what I mean. The story takes place in Bombay, India, where many people starve to death every day; but not all the people in Bombay are starving.
And among the nonstarving population of Bombay, India, there was a wedding, and a party was thrown in honor of the bride and groom. Some of the wedding guests brought elephants to the party. They weren't really conscious of showing off, they were just using the elephants for transportation. Although it might strike us as a big-shot way to travel around, I don't think these wedding guests saw themselves that way. Most of the were probably not directly responsible for the vast numbers of their fellow Indians who were starving all around them; most of them were just calling "time out" from their own problems, and the problems of the world, to celebrate the wedding of a friend. But if 
you were a member of the starving Indians, and you hobbled past that wedding party and saw all those elephants parked outside, you probably would have felt some disgruntlement.
Furthermore, some of the revelers at the wedding got drunk and began feeding beer to their elephant. They emptied an ice bucket and filled it with beer, and they went tittering out to the parking lot and fed their hot elephant the whole bucket. The elephant liked it. So the revelers gave him several more buckets of beer.
Who knows how beer will affect an elephant? These people meant no harm, they were just having fun - and chances are fairly good that the rest of their lives weren't one hundred percent fun. They probably needed this party. But the people were also being stupid and irresponsible.
If one of those many starving Indians had dragged himself through the parking lot and seen these drunken wedding guests filling up an elephant with beer, I'll bet he would have felt resentful. But I hope you see I am not making 
fun of anyone.
What happens next is that the drunken revelers are asked to 
leave the party because their behavior with their elephant is obnoxious to the other wedding guests. No one can blame the other guests for feeling this way; some of them may have actually thought they were preventing things from getting "out of hand," although people have never been very successful at preventing this.
Huffy and brave with beer, the revelers struggled up on their elephant and veered away from the parking lot - a large exhibition of happiness, surely - bumping into a few other elephants and things because the revelers' elephant plowed from side to side in a lumbering wooze, bleary and bloated with buckets of beer. His trunk lashed back and forth like a badly fastened artificial limb. The great beast was so unsteady that he struck an electric utility pole, shearing it cleanly and bringing down the live wires on his massive head - which killed him, and the wedding guests who were riding him, instantly.
Mrs. Poole, please believe me: I don't think that's "funny." But along comes one of those starving Indians. He sees all the wedding guests mourning the death of their friends, and their friends' elephant; much wailing, rending of fine clothes, spilling of good food and drink. The first thing he does is to take the opportunity to slip into the wedding while the guests are distracted and steal a little good food and drink for his starving family. The second thing he does is start to laugh himself sick about the manner in which the revelers disposed of themselves and their elephant. Alongside death by starvation, this method of enormous dying must seem very funny, or at least quick, to the undernourished Indian. But the wedding guests don't see it that way. It is already a tragedy to them; they are already talking about "this tragic event," and although they could perhaps forgive the presence of a "mangy beggar" at their party - and even have tolerated his stealing their food - they cannot forgive him for 
laughing at their dead friends' elephant.
The wedding guests - outraged at the beggar's behavior (at his 
laughter, not his thievery and not his rags) - drown him in one of the beer buckets that the late revelers used to water their elephant. They construed this to represent "justice". We see that the story is about the class struggle - and, of course, "serious", after all. But I like to consider it a comedy about a natural disaster: they are just people rather foolishly attempting to "take charge" of a situation whose complexity is beyond them - a situation compsed of eternal and trivial parts. After all, with something as large as an elephant, it could have been much worse.
I hope, Mrs. Poole, that I have made what I mean clearer to you. In any case, I thank you for taking the time to write to me, because I appreciate hearing from my audience - even critically.
Yours truly,
Garp was an expressive man. He made everything baroque, he believed in exaggeration; his fiction was also extremist. Garp never forgot his failure with Mrs. Poole; she worried him, often, and her reply to his pompous letter must have upset him even further.
Dear Mr. Garp,[Mrs. Poole replied]
I never thought you would take the trouble to write me a letter. You must be a sick man. I can see by your letter that you believe in yourself, and I guess that's good. But the things you say are mostly garbage and nonsense to me, and I don't want you to try to explain anything to me again, because it is boring and insulting to my intelligence.
Irene Poole
Garp was, like his beliefs, self-contradictory. He was very generous with other people, but he was horribly impatient. He set his own standards for how much of his time and patience everyone deserved. He could be painstakingly sweet, until he decided he'd been sweet enough. Then he turned and came roaring back the other way.
Dear Irene,[Garp wrote to Mrs. Poole]
You should either stop trying to read books, or you should try a lot harder.
Dear Shithead,[wrote Irene Poole]
My husband says that if you write to me again, he'll beat your brains into pulp.
Very sincerely,
Mrs. Fitz Poole
Dear Fitzy and Irene,[Garp shot right back]
Fuck you.