You canâ€™t beat a system you canâ€™t understand
You can’t beat a system you can’t understand
I don’t want to alarm anyone, but our crack team of researchers told me that many people suspect we might be losing an important basic freedom, specifically — freedom of speech.
Now before anybody starts screaming and kicking, allow me to explain.
We haven’t lost the freedom to talk; we have lost the freedom to speak with clarity. Our loss of freedom began with the initiation of “political correctness.” As difficult as it is to believe, the term originated as a joke in a comic strip. Somehow, a bunch of bozos in the nation’s capitol took the concept seriously. In a lamentable effort to elevate their positions as official bootlickers in the politician assistant arena, they told their bosses that political correctness could be a great strategy to win votes. As expected, the politicians jumped on the concept like a Rottweiller on a pork chop.
“How does it work? How does it work?” they chanted.
“Tell us now. Oh please. We’ll give you high paying jobs and political positions that you really don’t deserve,” they added. Again, as expected, the alwaysavailable teams of political lapdogs, advisors, and strategists dispensed valuable advice.
“All you have to do is tell everybody who might be oppressed, suppressed, repressed, or depressed that it is not politically correct for anybody to say anything that will make them feel bad or they will be sued, and you, oh great leader of your constituents, will have the majority vote.”
This excited the politicians to the point of frenzy. They could barely control themselves. So they asked the next logical question, which in their minds was a brilliant inquiry: “Who are these people?”
The question stunned the advisors for a moment, but they quickly recovered, composed themselves, and with beatific smiles on their perfectly scrubbed little faces, explained the concept in simple terms that even politicians could understand. “I believe the target audience includes most women, children, all minority groups, and the entire workforce from middle management on down,” the advisors said.
The politicians danced with glee. “We can coin terms like ‘sexual harassment’,” they shouted. We’ll create work for attorneys, keep the courts full, add personnel. It’s a win-win situation. Then they scurried off to their little offices like a herd of gerbils, and behind closed doors, created campaigns with their beloved bootlickers, lapdogs and advisors.
Hmmm . . . “Sexual harassment” . . . what an ugly term. Which reminds me — Valentine’s Day just passed. How did everyone survive? The rules of courtship have dramatically changed with political correctness. Things just aren’t the same.
I’m not quite sure how procreation or any kind of intimacy can possibly take place when men are so afraid of being sued for this “sexual harassment” thing. I can only imagine what the courtship procedure is like during these trying times.
“Hi. My name is Sam . . . It’s a politically correct name; both men and women use it. Not too macho or anything like that. Anyway — it’s nice to see you. You look particularly average today. I don’t really find myself attracted to you other than in a friendly way. Maybe we can be best buddies, what do you think?
“By the way — I’m going to the El Cheapo Bistro around 6 o’clock. If you just happen to be in the neighborhood, I’ll be having dinner there. It’s a place we can both afford. If you’re so inclined, I’ll be sitting at a table with two sides. If you’d like, you can sit on the other side of my table, and we can eat our dinners while we converse about uncontroversial subjects. You know, like how much we enjoy our positions in the workplace — that sort of thing. But only if you feel like doing this. It isn’t an invitation, just a suggestion in case you don’t have anything better to do. I’m not asking for a date, or anything like that.
“What’s that? Maybe? Oh, well. Okay. I’ll be there anyway, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? If you do show up and we enjoy our time together, I’ll leave a card on the table with my address. If you want, you can pick it up. If you’re in the neighborhood, feel free to stop by. We can sit around for a few hours and ignore each other. Better than being alone, isn’t it? Now, don’t misunderstand me, I’m not actually asking you to come to my home. It’s just a suggestion if you’re in the neighborhood.”
Yuk! I can’t write any more. Suddenly I’m feeling oppressed, suppressed, repressed, and depressed. I think I’ll sue myself. Living in this system I can’t understand is getting to me.