Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Classic Lunatic #4 - A Tale of Two Kitties...

I have to do it this way, Kiddies, because otherwise Libtards don't understand. I've discovered recently that a Libtard manages to just barely grasp a simple notion if you present it graphically, and if you can include cat pictures they love it even more.

Now, I know that people are not the same as cats, but bear with me, because I have to explain a thing or two about these animals before I make my argument. Perhaps after this little explanation, the analogy will start to make sense. The cat on the Left is a pampered housecat. The one on the Right  (below) is a feral cat, and yes, my use of Left and Right does have a specific point, and that will become crystal clear as I get to the end of this little screed.

The pictures of the two felines are a metaphor for American Life:

Fluffy, the Cat pictured above, is analogous to today's modern Liberal. She lives entirely by the efforts of others; someone feeds her, she doesn't pay for the food, and all she has to do is probably kick up a fuss, and some dipshit with little native intelligence will bring her a bowl of food and some water, and perhaps the occasional saucer of milk. That's primarily why she's such a fat little fucking bastard.

I would not doubt that at some point Fluffy was de-clawed, meaning whoever runs the house that she lives in (and doesn't pay for) probably decided that since she was going to be a housecat -- a favored pet, if you will -- she would not need to go outside (where she might have to defend herself from other cats), and therefore, did not need her claws. Besides, if she had her claws she'd only do something stupid and inconvenient with them, like scratch up the furniture.

It's probably also safe to say that Fluffy has been spayed, because if there's anything we don't need, it's more fat-ass lazy cats who won't carry their own freight and climb the drapes like the cats do back on whatever continent they originated on.

Fluffy probably doesn't have to waddle her ginormous kitty backside to the litter box, either; Asswipe owner probably hauls her bloated carcass to the Shitbox, and then cleans it, because if there's anything worse than a fat fucking cat who plays in the Venetian blinds, doesn't chase mice (or much of anything else), claws up your carpets, and can't reproduce, it's one who's only reason for existence is to have food shoveled in one end and fecal matter ejected from the other, and considering the smell of cat dung that's been left around for any appreciable amount of time, it's probably a minor inconvenience to drag thirty pounds of cat around two or three times a day.

Eventually, because the drooling idiot who owns Fluffy has made her grossly obese with all the food and mollycoddling, the stupid cat will die of feline diabetes or something, but only after racking up enormous end-of-life-care bills at the vet because the above mentioned drooling idiot can't bear to part with the little fucking furball when reality -- and mortality -- finally sets in.

Fluffy is representative of the cancer that is eating America from the inside. She is a welfare queen, who has her every need catered to by a complete doofus who's thought processes are somewhat suspect. After all, this person decided to own a relatively useless animal, a cat, and then pamper it in a way that would make a Saudi Prince green with envy. In this way, Fluffy demonstrates the symbiotic relationship between "The Poor" (I'll tell you why that's in quotation marks in a minute) and the well-meaning-but-utterly-clueless, feel-before-thinking, batshit-insane jerk who decided that what really gives her (it's usually a "her") peace of mind or happiness is to overindulge an animal who doesn't care, will never thank her for it in any meaningful way, never learn to fend for itself, and is probably plotting her demise right this very minute...if only she could get off her fat tush and claw that woman's throat out.

Think about it this way: Fluffy, before being fatter than Oprah finally does her in, will have been housed in someone else's house at no cost (Section 8 Housing), fed at another's expense and by another's labor (Food Stamps), will have been given access to birth control that she will never have to spend a nickle on and will be given every wonder of veterinary science in a useless effort to extend her unproductive life (ObamaCare), has food and water handed to her (EBT Card), has been disarmed for her own good (Gun Control), and her waste and sticky, upchucked hairballs carted away for her. Fluffy, on a good day, simply has to breathe and meow, and Delirious Cat Owner will give her whatever she wants, because Delirious Cat Owner is obviously a mental patient who has decided that the cost of keeping a cat as a prized pet is to overfeed it, spoil it within in an inch of it's life, expect it to do nothing all day, in an effort to avoid the more dire consequences of cat ownership -- which is a caterwauling mass of diabolical fur and teeth which often has the same disposition as a menstrual wolverine.  If Fluffy were black or hispanic or gay, there'd probably be an affirmative action program or entitlement with her name on it.

Tiger, the cat on the Right, on the other hand, has a different life.

You see, Tiger lives in the Real World. She's a feral cat. Whatever home she has is the home she's found for herself. She spends her day doing what she needs to do in order to survive. Tiger does not expect some overprotective dingbat with an overdeveloped sense of maternity to shovel food into her gullet; she goes out and hunts for it, and if she happens to be lucky when the Crazy Old Bitch in the neighborhood decides it's a good idea to leave food out for the opportunistic Tiger, well, that's just gravy. Tiger, after all, lives for opportunity, because she's a capitalist (or at least the feline equivalent).

Tiger performs a valuable service in the community by keeping the local rodent and bird populations in check, chasing the squirrels out of your bird feeder, and occasionally giving the Fire Department some ladder practice.

Tiger is going to have lots of progeny, seeing as how her privates are intact. All those mouths to feed means that Tiger has to be a responsible mother, and so she does what tradition and instinct have told her it is necessary to do in order to ensure that her young survive; she feeds them from her own breast. She hunts more often in order to maintain her own food supply and to provide for her youngins. Eventually, when the kittens are old enough, she will teach them the hunting techniques that millions of years of evolution have given to cats. And because Tiger doesn't live at the equivalent of the Kitty Ritz-Carlton, she has to hunt and defend herself in the world with the weapons that God gave her: claws and teeth. Without them, Tiger wouldn't last a minute in this cold, cruel world.

Tiger, in comparison to Fluffy, lives an active life; it is a hard life, certainly, but she is independent. She doesn't depend upon a human to care for her, and she will never get to be a big fat piece of crap who's only reason for existence is to make some lonely, butt-ugly lesbian crackpot feel as if she actually has a child that her lifestyle choices and sexual preferences have previously denied her. Tiger will never be dressed up in embarrassing Santa hats for Christmas card pictures; she will never be the star of a YouTube video in which we stupid humans sit and laugh at a cat being a cat for no other reason than...well, it's a fucking cat.

Tiger is not a freeloader. She is an independent spirit.. Fluffy, on the other hand, is a fucking burden and nuisance.

We tend to think of the term "Fat Cat" as meaning someone who is wealthy, but here I will return to that term I used earlier, "The Poor".

Today, "The Poor" are no such thing. If we're talking about strictly material things, our modern "Poor" in America are better off than most any other class of people in Human History, comparatively speaking. They don't have to work, they don't have to pay taxes, and everything is handed to them by virtue of the fact that they're alive and "Poor". Today's "poor" have air conditioning, cell phones, cable TV, video games, bling out the ying-yang, free health care, free education, a million "programs" of dubious value, and extra-constitutional rights. They are free; no one bothers them, in a real sense. They breed when they feel like it, they steal and rape when they feel like it, they drop out of school if that suits them, and there is an entire structure -- the so-called "Safety Net" -- to help them live a life of complete and comfortable idleness that probably has not been seen since the Pharaohs ruled Egypt, sans the golden caskets and fancy digs.

Perhaps every once in a while someone whips them into a frenzy for political purposes, but in general, they have lived in much the same way for generation after generation. Their ambition has been taken from them (because like Fluffy, they're catered too), their survival instinct has been tamped down (see: the tens of thousands who stayed in New Orleans after being told to get out), their expectations are generally pretty low since they've learned not to expect too much from the class of people above them (generally people who are much like they are) who know how to manipulate them, but not truly help them.

And why won't that class of people just above them truly help them?

Because there's great money in poverty, that's why.

There are legions of bureaucrats who's only function is to "help" "The Poor". This "help" takes the form of victimizing them again and again: you'd be stupid to go get a real job since welfare pays so much better than anything you're qualified for. We could give you an education that would qualify for something better, but that would mean that thousands of so-called teachers on the union payroll might actually have to perform, rather than just collect a check and pay dues. 

We could let you defend yourselves, but, alas, like the pampered housecat, giving you weapons only creates more problems for us. There's people who live to "help" you fill in forms; some whose function is to answer the phones in some government office before giving you the wrong information. There are others there to simply "advocate" for you, to "investigate" you, to classify and count you, to hand you a check, to rubber stamp a form, to run the copy machines, to make coffee, and since they all "work" in a government building, they provide "jobs" for tens of millions of others just like them -- largely complete douchebags who only have a job because they managed to "pass" a civil service exam written by and for complete illiterates with a 62.. 

There are politicians, lawyers, reverends, community organizers, rabble-rousers of a dozen stripes who have Fluffy's back, but never seem to actually improve Fluffy's lot in life (after all, what's to improve? You get to do whatever the fuck you want all day, and don't have to make an effort to survive). Sure, it's not the greatest life; some aspects of it can be downright demeaning or abrasive -- like when they brush you when you don't want them to, or when the Neighbor's Kids (The Media) drop by to gawk at your enormous fucking bulk, and you can't decide if they're there to laugh or to offer more of this nebulous "help" everyone keeps offering you.

Yes, Fluffy is emblematic of "The Poor"; they are the pampered pets of the democratic (small 'd' intentional) party that sees to their every need, coos encouraging words -- the words they want to hear -- in their ears, goes through the wasted effort of expending resources on an animal that is so fat and dumb it probably can't even lick it's own ass anymore, and does everything in it's power to keep it that way. After all, there's votes in all that poverty; the recipients will vote if you promise them more, the providers will vote because it means a continued paycheck, the bureaucrats will vote for it because it means they don't have to compete in the private sector -- and lose -- the Productive Class will give you the money because to not give it means millions of Fluffys manage to work up enough ambition to riot. And all the while it rains dollah-dollah everywhere, except on Fluffy. 

Mostly because giving Fluffy money is a ridiculous notion after she's been given everything else, and is too fucking lazy for her own good. Her job is not to be an independent, functioning member of Kitty Society, providing yeoman service in keeping the house safe from vermin or by attacking every stray -- but dangerous -- flashlight beam that dare show itself on the wall, but to lay on the couch to be fawned over because Dipshit Cat owner must prove She "cares". That Fluffy adds little, in economic or realistic terms, only in emotional ones, means nothing. Fluffy will continue to be pampered until deceased because it makes Lunatic Cat Lady feel better about herself, and in some way, gives her the thrill of having power over someone else's life.

People who do things because they like to "feel" superior, or because they have convoluted notions about how life (and everything attached to it) actually works, who wish to exert control -- to guide, to protect, to "help" -- others, usually do a damned good job of fucking the Other's life up, and little more.

That's why Fluffy will explode in a mass of blood and cat guts from overfeeding, while Tiger will be living free to come and go and to do as she pleases, all on her terms, and in an environment where she will either succeed or fail according to her own talents. Perhaps that sounds grim, but that's life in the real world, my precious little libtards, so grow the fuck up already.

We are a Nation of Fluffys. We used to be a Nation of Tigers. The way back to the days when Americans could and did do everything, and did so with pride, unfettered by a smothering government, before they were taxed to inhuman levels to feed the real fat cats ("The Poor" and those who feed on them) of the world, is a difficult path, but one which we'll travel successfully again, if only because the Fluffys of the world usually do us all a favor and -- without even trying -- eventually do something which renders the entire exercise pointless, like THIS...

...and then do you really care what Fluffy wants and needs, and are you inclined to continue to listen to her or provide for her? I think not.

Here endeth the Lesson.

(This originally appeared in The Lunatic's Asylum, in May of 2014).

No comments: