1. The Local Grocery Store: The Overlord enters his local purveyor to purchase some cigarettes. The clerk behind the counter, a 16-year old young man (I know he's 16 because he's one of the neighbor kids) is asking the previous customer for his identification. The previous customer is attempting to purchase beer, and must show his identification to complete the transaction.
It would turn out the previous customer is 35 years of age, in a state where the legal drinking age is 21. No problem, the man gets his beer, one would think.
The 16-year old is not legally able to sell beer, regardless of the legal status of the buyer. This requires the summoning of a manager (who one assumes is of legal age), who must give his approval to make the sale final.
While we wait, I make the observation that a legal beer drinker has just been proofed by an underage clerk, who is legally unable to sell him beer in the first place.
We all laugh.
The same clerk asks for my identification in order to purchase cigarettes. I tell him, sarcastically, that I don't have any -- just a note from my Mommy.
2. I had meant to remark on this earlier, but, as they say, "shit happened", and I didn't get around to it.
A young lady in Utah buys a dress in a second-hand store to wear to her high school prom. She likes the dress so much (and to be honest, she fucking ROCKED it), that she shared her prom pictures in said dress all over Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook. Here's a story about the entire kerfuffle.
The dress in question is called a "qiapo", and is a Chinese style that was popularized in the United States in the 1940's and 50's. Sadly, and almost predictably, in this day and age, her enthusiasm for her dress did not go over well with some douchebag who probably has nothing better to do than masturbate 14 times a day, when he isn't pulling the wings off flies (or is it pulling the flies off wings?) as a hobby, that is when he's not uselessly railing at invisible voices about the total unfairness inherent in his inability to get laid.
Said douchebag took to Twitter to play the "Cultural Appropriation Card", which is the new-and-improved version of the "Race Card", which itself has become as useless to civil discourse as mammary glands on a bull (excuse me, I meant transitioning non-gender-conforming bovine entity). The Race Card had previously been played so many times by so many people who have so many mental disorders that any power it once had to mystically transform one into a victim deserving of greater rights and more special considerations than anyone else dissipated in a cloud of who-gives-a-fuck many moons ago.
Like everything else related to Identity Politics, when mere Race no longer suffices as a means of prying privileges from society, we go one bigger, and start assuming the butthurt must take on continental proportions and stretch further back into the mists of time.
"My Culture is not your fucking Prom Dress", Tweeted short-dicked, celibate-by-circumstance, bedwetter. (The expletive is in the original Tweet. Media outlets have taken to toning down it's content by replacing the curse word with variations on the theme. It's funny that the media should do this on two levels. The first being that, suddenly, the same press that can't wait to release details surrounding porn star trysts and alleged Golden Showers with Russian harlots when the subject is Donald Trump suddenly get all prudish, and second, leaving the original expletive in when writing their stories only makes someone they already identify with -- the poor fucktard who feels a white girl wearing a Chinese dress is akin to the Rape of Nanking -- look smaller, less-intelligent, pettier, and did we mention involuntarily celibate?, than he already is.
If Mr. Couldn't-Get-Laid-At-A-Homosexual-Orgy-With-an-Endless-Supply-of-Vaseline was really as intelligent, indeed, as historically-knowledgeable, or as sophisticated, as his (expletive deleted) Tweet was supposed to make him appear, then he'd realize a few things.
First, and I haven't checked this, but I'm betting Mr-I-Look-Like-A-Ken-Doll-From-The-Waist-Down is not a native Chinese. That is to say, he wasn't born in China. That is to say that he may be ethnically Chinese (or Asian) but was probably raised in the West. Because only in the West are people stupid enough to fall for the scam of Cultural Appropriation.
This is to say that Dingleberry is not even remotely Chinese in his cultural experience.
If you were born, raised, educated, and lived your entire life within the confines of the United States of America, then your culture is "American", Asshole, regardless of the color of your skin. I have no more connection to Italy, despite being ethnically Italian, than does some reprobate wandering the streets of Detroit speaking of Mother Africa. I have only been to Italy once, for a few weeks, and Detroit Person has never been to Africa, at all, Sure, I eat "Italian food", was raised a Catholic, and grew up surrounded by Salvatores, Carmines and Conchettas, I am no more "Italian" than a Swede is.
I don't have purple feet.
And when I say that I mean to imply that I have no connection whatsoever to Italy; I was not born there; I did not attend school there; what I know as Italian Cuisine does not resemble the food served in the common households of Sicily, Tuscany, or Calabria. I do not speak Italian. My heart does not leap at the thought of soccer. I hate motor scooters. I can bathe daily because my country is not dependent upon a 2,000 year old system of municipal water delivery. There is little "Italian" (more properly, Sicilian and Neapolitan) in me. My heroes are not Garibaldi, Mussolini, or Aleghieri; they are more likely to be George Washington, George Patton, and Tom Clancy.
Assuming I'm correct, and Dickhead with a Twitter Account is Asian-American, then he's no more Chinese than my dog is a physicist.
Second, Historically-Ignorant Fucktard would also have to admit that in the last century China adopted Democracy, then Fascism, then Communism, and finally, Managerialist Capitalism. That Chinese regularly consume McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken, wear Levi's jeans, and have rebuilt their cities completely with concrete-and-smoked-glass skyscraper monstrosities, all funded by an Industrialized economy connected to a system of international trade, where the average Chinese aspires to own a personal automobile and a refrigerator, and spends a great deal of his or her time engrossed by their cellphone, all things foreign to the culture.
Much the same could be said of Japan, South Korea, India, Taiwan, and Indonesia.
None of these things originated anywhere in Asia, let alone China.
Now, why is it "Cultural Appropriation" if a white girl in Utah wears a Chinese-style dress, but no so when a Reebok-wearing, Bluetooth-rocking, App Developer from Shanghai walks into the local Subway and orders a 5-yuan Brooklyn BMT footlong to take home to eat while he's watching Captain America or Game of Thrones on his iPad?
In fact, one could make the argument -- and I will -- that the adaptation of all things Western -- economics, political systems, modes of dress, cuisine, entertainment, the cult of the automobile, the internet, and much, much more -- is a tacit admission that Asian culture, whatever it's other inherent virtues, is simply not good enough for the people who live within it, so much so that they eagerly, almost desperately, latch on to all things Western with a gusto bordering on reckless abandon?
After all, if it (Asian culture, or any culture, for that matter) were perfect, if it were virtuous, if it met the needs of the common Asian, they would never have to borrow anything from the Outsider, ever. It was shades of this attitude -- the West has nothing to offer us -- that led to China being subdivided by the West, and Japan demolished by war against the West -- that directly led to the Hardee's in Beijing, the Best Buy in Mumbai, the Ford dealership in Tokyo, the Old Navy in Seoul.
As a matter of fact, all cultures, at one time or another have borrowed influences from others. Progress would be impossible without this constant exchange of ideas. Including the progress that made it possible for a eunuch to passive-aggressively identify himself as a self-absorbed pussy with a poorly-thought-out, meaningless phrase like "Cultural Appropriation".
People who use such terms (I'll get to the word "Toxic" in a minute) just advertise their powerlessness on a daily basis. They're also shouting their retard from the rooftops. They give one the impression of being mere blobs of soulless protoplasm, sitting astride the internet all day waiting for something to be outraged about, because without the occasional distraction (and intense Virtue-Signalling high) of outrage, they'd have more time to think about -- and realize -- what sort of pathetic losers they truly are.
Those who can, do; those who can't teach; those who can't even do that complain loudly and obnoxiously about how unfair it was that they lost the Gene Pool lottery.
3. On the meaning of "Toxic".Once upon a time, Webster's defined the word "toxic" as something poisonous. Virulent. Noxious. Deadly.
It has now been re-defined by it's greatest users -- that is to say, any female under the age of 30 -- to simply mean "male", as in the phrase "toxic masculinity".
It's strange how masculinity is now considered toxic when the people who consider it as such have probably been the greatest beneficiaries of masculinity in history, and by this, I mean the Western Female.
Masculinity has defended and protected the female, in both war and peace; it is necessary for the propagation of the species; 99.99% of all the inventions in all of history sprang from the masculine propensities for inquiry and risk-taking; it is emulation of the masculine qualities associated with sexual prowess, ambition, economic and political power, that fuels modern Feminism.
Like all things Feminazi, however, this emulation is a double-edged sword; when they allow a female to succeed beyond her capabilities, then all is right with the Universe. When they stand in the way of a woman getting what she wants, then they become "toxic". Again, if Feminism didn't have double standards, it would have none at all.
This stroll through Lexicology Lane was prompted by an incident of last week that has me quite perturbed.
I am a great aficionado of online gaming. There is one particular game, and one particular gaming group, that I have been associated with -- on and off - for almost 15 years. Until last week, when I was unceremoniously banned from the group. No explanation was given: I simply attempted to log into the server one day to find that I had been booted.
So, I made an inquiry as to why. What I got back was a Feminist Manifesto so dripping with estrogen that my e-mail account may acquire a permanent menstrual cycle.
Apparently, I am too difficult "to work with" (which is strange, since no one ever asked me "to work" with them, whatever this means, in the context of the game; in the game, we, ideally, "co-operate", not "work"). My propensity to often disagree with "the Group", no matter how well-reasoned, no matter how well-explained, makes me "toxic". This was the first indication that I was beset by a pack of snarling Femtards.
This inability to fall into line and be a good little neutered drone, follow the dictates of anonymous strangers who all think the same way, and simply let the girls "win" (which is another foreign concept within the game: no one "wins" -- we merely overcome by guile one circumstance until presented with another) was considered "toxic" (there's that word again. Twice. Confirmation; it's the Twisted Tampon Set), and not conducive to enjoyable gaming.
I was also informed that my predilection for using the tools of debate in out-of-game discussions -- logic, reason, ethos, pathos, historical example, but above all, sarcasm -- was considered hurtful to others, and made them feel "demeaned" and "de-humanized" (There it is: Trifecta of Chick Shit!). In other words, they can't debate with me, because they're too stupid to do so, and if there's anything that hurts a moron more than a sledgehammer to the private parts, it's to let them know how stupid they truly are; to remove the still-beating dumbass from their chests by brute force and present it to them on a silver platter is bad form, apparently.
And so they took the action they've been trained to take by all the good brainwashing programs available on the average Western Campus -- they narked on me; they whined; they threatened to leave en mass (boycott), and demanded a Safe Space where my kind -- and the ideas I represent -- would be ostracized, excluded, rendered harmless by elimination.
If they could have gotten me fired, they probably would have tried that, too.
In a pique of frustration with the constant caterwauling of unhinged vaginas, it was decided by The Powers That Be that it was easier to excise the cancer of White Male than to deal with the continuous cacophony of Enraged, but powerless, Pussy. So, I must find a new online game "home", and 15 years of good online friends, gaming companions, and sterling and enjoyable associations with hundreds of others who don't have their panties in a wad, go by the wayside. A pitiful waste.
But I'm the toxic one?
4. Cruising. Mrs. Overlord, now feeling better, has begun to wax rhapsodic on the subject of a vacation. An extended one.
I will not bore you with the details of the logistical nightmare this entails when dealing with an oxygen-dependent, handicapped person who requires therapy delivered by a variety of machines, that makes such a notion difficult, if not impossible, to achieve. Or enjoy.
In any case, the subject of "taking a cruise" came up. In fact, it has "come up" several times in the last few days. Mrs. Overlord remembers, fondly, her cruise experience, and would like to repeat it.
Not so Much your Lord and Master.
For a start, I despise the ocean. No need to go into why, but take my world for it. I don't even like the beach. If there's anything I hate more than large bodies of salt water, it's traversing them in order to visit "tropical islands". Tropical islands, to my thinking, are the places where civilization has hardly reached, and where the few trappings that have made their way to remote outposts of the world go to die.
I find nothing "romantic" about Sunsets and Moonrises over the ocean. I find no redeeming qualities are to be found in backwaters which are more reminiscent of a Trailer Park with Grass Skirts, or which serve as a reminder of how badly Europeans and Confederates fucked up by refusing to pick their own cotton or harvesting their own sugar. I find no excitement in the prospect of traveling to a foreign land where more people are killed by machete and diarrhea than by gunshot wound. I do not enjoy "Tropical" drinks which cost a kidney served with pink paper umbrellas, served by a smiling coolie who if it weren't for the fact that we were in a hotel or resort, would have no trouble slitting my throat, robbing me blind, and leaving my corpse to fitfully bob in the low tide.
But, truly, my real objection to a cruise is simply this:
I am not paying good money to be trapped on board a gigantic, floating toilet, to share living space with the Circling-the-Bowl Elderly and the Eternally-Drunken-20-something Monkey. I refuse to lay my weary head down upon a mattress which is probably infused with the fluids and vomits of a thousand anonymous, rum-besotted hook-ups.I will not venture out of my natural element, which means dry land, on board a contrivance that does no allow me relatively easy escape in the event of an emergency, or the means of quick return when I (finally) get bored. In addition, I refuse to visit anyplace with the abbreviation "St." in front of it, as this is an indication that it is populated by the descendants of those who were too stupid to avoid being captured and sold into slavery.
Besides, there is no real "Culture" (see above) in many of these places. Either, like Mexico, the remarkable culture that once existed has been destroyed, or, like Haiti, the Dominican Republic or Jamaica, what passes for culture is largely constructed of cardboard and corrugated tin, and populated by an illiterate folk whose daily routines revolve around petty crime, getting high, and producing offspring they can't feed.
If wanted to see that, I could just go to the Bronx and save myself some money.
No, if given my druthers, I would prefer to go someplace where the culture is unmistakable; where the modern conveniences don't cost you a vital organ; where you know you could get open-heart surgery in a pinch; and where the Noble Savages are actually Noble and not-so-Savage, at all, and I don't have to wonder if I've just eaten the local vermin deceptively advertised as "fresh seafood".
Give me Spain! Give me Britain! Give Me France, Italy, or Greece! I would love to see the Great Cities of Eastern Europe -- Budapest, Vienna, Prague, St. Petersburg, Kiev. I would enjoy a walk along the Wailing Wall, soaking in the history (even among the bomb bursts). I might even be tempted by a tour of Canada (I like Canada. Some wonderful scenery). I might even be persuaded to venture as far afield as Japan. But never on a ship, never with "excursions" to the local AIDS depots, and certainly never doing so while dragging a bi-pap machine, an oxygen concentrater, a wheelchair, and enough bottled oxygen to support an Apollo moon landing.
Mrs. Overlord will have to aim somewhat lower, methinks.