“Fat chick”? What the implausible cock? What drives anyone to offer this up as a response to, say, a piece on counter-terrorism? More to the point, what drives me to distraction when I see it? I’m unsure. I don’t even give a crap that it is “sexist”. The world does a perfectly good job of reminding me it is sexist in far more deleterious ways and that some icy wad of non-dairy dessert has managed to employ their keyboard in the service of very poor taste, who cares?
Inflationary bias doesn’t just happen because people are Chinese. Or because they are greedy or because they have no taste. It happens because there are no fucking controls on the fucking market. And, to a lesser degree, because there are no fucking controls on basic fucking journalism.
I don’t know which tedious tank of raw human mind-waste it was that dumped all your hippy-aspirational turds on my blog and nor do I care but let it be said: fuck off.
So, don’t Quit Sugar. Maybe Quit bullshit instead.
And this is not to say “give up! Accept the destiny that the unequal systems of wealth have written!”. Nor is it a moral licence to strap one’s snout to a feed bad of ganja—although, let it be said, there is as much useful life in the vacant eyes of stoners as can be found in the hearts of intellectual property solicitors. It is to say, however, that a little suspicion of the idea of self-improvement as noble or natural is healthy.
I just wanted to bash out these thoughts about the horror of Christmas so that, at the very least, you knew that there is an unnamed community of Bah Humbugs who can trace the approximate shape of your pain.