A Majority of One (I Guess I won't Be Eating Here Again)

"The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts, and the stupid ones are full of confidence..." -- Charles Bukowski

There are few things in life that are simultaneously as satisfying and aggravating as arguing with a pimple-faced, for-show, conformist, totally clueless campus Marxist.

I enjoyed -- and yes, that is the proper word -- this bittersweet experience this past weekend whilst having dinner at an acquaintance's home, and I have a feeling that will be the last time I shall ever eat there.

Fortunately, for me, anyway, this "acquaintance" was never my friend, but rather a friend of Mrs. Overlord's late husband. And the lamb was overcooked, anyhow.

So, no great loss either way.

It began innocently enough when Acquaintance's Daughter showed up just before dinner, arriving home from school unannounced with her laundry, naturally. I guess they don't have laundry rooms or laundromats in the expensive day care center with a basketball team she attends, and this requires her to come home every few weeks with 80 pounds of laundry. I reckon they must have spent all the money earmarked for laundry services on applying "trigger warnings" to everything, creating Safe Spaces(tm), and renting therapy pets for the Modern Snowflake.

Daddy gets a stack of envelopes. These are credit card bills, her tuition bill for this semester, and, by the way, her bank balance is low again.

Daughter is a 21-year-old mass of acne, baby fat (Mrs. Overlord remarked that she still has her baby fat, which lead me to ask "How many babies do you think she's eaten?"), and at first glance, an alcohol problem, who is continuously reciting her resume (as thin as it is) to you in a pathetic attempt to convince you that, for all the drooling babble, she is someone to be taken seriously. Within 17 minutes (I timed it) I was forming the mental image of a little girl, standing before a mirror in Mommy's dress and over-sized high heels, makeup crudely applied to her face as if she had chewed her way through the Crayola 64-pack, playing debutante, or bride, or holding an imaginary formal tea with her stuffed animals.

The Che Guevara T-shirt just barley visible beneath it all.

Daughter attends (insert name of trendy, mid-tier university that costs fifty-thousand-bucks-a-year-here, and which is apparently a waste of resources) where she spent her first three years studying "Liberal Arts", which to hear her speak indicates a severe lack of anything "liberal", expressed in the most in-artful way. However, since she became "woke" (yes, she actually used the word) after witnessing the heartbreaking scene of an African-American student apparently feeling shamed by uttering an incorrect answer in class, she decided that "studying the Dead White Men of the Western Canon and bourgeois culture" was an activity on par with genocide, and turned her attention to a more "holistic" calling -- "Urban Justice", whatever the fuck that is -- so that no retarded minority should ever have to suffer the indignity of having an incorrect answer pointed out to them in public ever again.

Even if it means another 2 years in school, to be followed by Law School (she's aiming for Harvard, natch. They all are), it's a small price (for Daddy, the institutional bond trader, and Mommy, the dentist) to pay; it's worth it just to correct the systemic injustices of the Amerikkkan capitalist system.

To reinforce the notion that Daughter is a virtuous paragon, and to convince you that, really, she's all grown up, an' stuff, she recites Marx by rote, always makes reference to obscure minority authors of the early 20th century in an attempt to make you feel intellectually/culturally inferior, and casually opens her second bottle of Daddy's Merlot before dinner all by herself. I can honestly say that this young woman is the only person that I can recall who has actually used the word "jingoism" in the last 20 years, and that everything and everyone is either "fascist" or "crypto-fascist", and that, naturally, everything that went wrong with the world began the night Hillary lost .

History, apparently, did not exist before November 8, 2016.

For Donald Trump, you see, is not only a fascist (considering everything is, this was only logical), but you'll be shocked, SHOCKED to learn that he's also a rapist, an imperialist, a robber baron, a tool of Big Business, a flaming idiot, the veritable Caesar at the head of a vast host of nose-picking, navel-gazing, inbred,slack-jawed, gap-toothed,  Bible-toting, Gun-loving Mountain Folk who still use outhouses and marry their blood relations, and the "only" (final?) solution to the problem of Amerikkka is a systematic program of violence and genocide undertaken by enlightened, altruistic, atheistic, humanists -- like her -- so that Socialism can FINALLY triumph.

The Overlord, admittedly, has advocated for a similar policy of pruning America's collective bush by cutting away the metaphorical dead branches and the clearing of the symbolic undergrowth; however, he doesn't do so under the mistaken impression that he's a superior intellect (because there's no mistake --he is a superior intellect) acting from some greater, virtuous impulse. In the Overlord's vision of killing off the stupid and the useless the ultimate purpose is the improvement of the species, not the implementation of a supposed beneficent despotism which never works.

You might say this is a distinction without a difference, but I say you haven't thought the idea all the way through: if you prune away the welfare cases, let the elderly die like Nature intended, defund the Left by destroying their ability to extract wealth from the productive, and let people actually suffer the consequences of their own stupidity, you'd probably find -- if not Utopia --at least a smarter, liberty-loving, self-sufficient, society at the end of it all, instead of a dictatorship doling out survival in thimbles, and enforcing unworkable policies by means of terror.

Anyway, you get the idea; this young woman is a pretentious idiot pretending to be a grown-up, being gratuitously obnoxious because she can. Neither Mommy nor Daddy -- products of the very Capitalist system, as is she, which she despises -- correct her. Nor do they point out the logical fallacies in her utterances (for example: Race does not exist. There is ONLY One Race, the human race, and if we all recognized that there'd be peace...ten minutes later, racism is ubiquitous, an excuse to riot, and can only be fixed by killing off all the evil white men).

You can only smile and nod for so long.

I would think that if there's any crime one could commit more-horrific than raping a man's daughter before his very eyes, then it must be exposing his indoctrinated-at-50k-a-year-daughter for a blithering idiot in his own house, at his own dinner table. For by the time that Trust Fund Lenin had tucked into her third bottle (what? No more Merlot? Really, Dad...*Sigh* I guess the Pinot will have to do...), I wanted to fucking smack her.

Mrs. Overlord began digging her fingernails into my thigh under the table. She could sense that Vesuvius was about to erupt. The dinner conversation had been nothing except "Fascist!", "the proletariat!", "solidarity with the masses!", "The Oppressive patriarchy!", "Privileged White Males should kill themselves!" (I assume Daddy should pay the bills before sticking his head in the oven), and if Mr. and Dr. Acquaintance were embarrassed, they hardly showed it. In fact, I'm guessing they had even less of an idea of what Daughter was on about than she did.

In retrospect, I could have held something back. By the time I was finished it was as if someone had taken a chainsaw to a box of kittens and puppies, and then run the resulting gore through the blender, for good measure. I don't usually lose my temper, but it could no longer be contained.

The fork and knife hit the plate with a clatter.

PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I could see Mrs. Overlord's face drain of all color out of the corner of my eye. Daughter was momentarily stunned into silence, only to start stuttering in a feeble attempt at defense.

How dare you? You show up here in your Lexus SUV, hand your mother your dirty laundry and dry cleaning like she's a slave (so much for Feminism!), talk down to your parents who pay your way through life, shit all over their way of life that makes your way of life possible, talk to me as if I'm a child who needs your dorm-room wisdom, and between diatribes of memorized bullshit you obviously don't understand, you play with your phone, complain about HOW HARD IT IS to get a good WiFi signal in this neighborhood, virtue signal about your phony regard for the poor and downtrodden, while gulping down high-end wine during a four-course meal in the very upper-middle-class bourgeois splendor that you say is decadent and racist. You haven't got a fucking clue, do you?

Needless to say, we were asked to leave not long afterwards.

No problem -- I'm just taking my cannolis with me.

Mrs. Overlord is mightily pissed, considering they were nice enough to send us a Christmas card and everything before Saturday night. She'll be lucky if they ever call her again, you know, just like they called her all the time in the last six years after Husband's death and even showed for the funeral (neither of which happened, if you didn't get the sarcasm).

Mrs. Overlord has her own version of retard, too, I figure.