What do Michael Brown, Walter Scott, and Dylann Roof have in common? Wildly popular hashtags.
I’ve whined before that social media might be the death of my novel, L’homme Theroux (due for reissue soon and much improved with lessons learned), but the same social media that is a wonder of communication and dissemination of cat photos has shown its dark side again.
Like a good Bowie knife, social media has a wickedly sharp top edge that will catch the unaware. I’ve managed to build my readership to a whopping fourteen fans, not counting relatives, via social media from an exceedingly remote location. As recently as ten years ago, this would have been an gargantuan task, and it was not even a remote possibility back when I first started writing for my middle school newsletter.
Now, through the magic of the internet, the entire world can nitpick my spelling, second-guess my word choice, and assume my education is lacking because I consider the rules of grammar to be really more suggestions; just like speed limits, “Firearms Prohibited” signs, and Blood Alcohol Content readings.
The dangerous part of social media, aside from its tendency to destroy deadlines and make time disappear faster than birthday cake at Melissa McCarthy’s house, is its ability to influence human behavior.
The whole Arab Spring, which historians will look back on one hundred years from now as trading one set of maniacal assholes for an even crazier set which accomplished nothing of substance or lasting improvement, was created and driven largely by amateur journalists who were boots on the ground doing jobs Americans wouldn’t do.
Now, anybody with an iPhone and a satellite signal can capture video, add their personal bias, and disseminate it to literally every person in the world in a matter of minutes. This is unprecedented. There are people who live in mud huts, wouldn’t know a commode if you showed them one, and still believe Elvis is alive, but damn it, they’ve seen the latest ISIS beheading video on Youtube.
These same people also practice slavery, believe in child marriage, and fuck their livestock, but they are just misunderstood. You’re a racist, if you disagree. White privilege!
On a side note, I’ve come to the realization that the charge of “white privilege,” which is the second most common Liberal mating call after any protest chant containing the word “Bush,” is really verbal shorthand for “I feel massively guilty for knowing my father and having the ability to say, ‘Thanks for the warning, Officer.'”
With a cellphone and a willingness to have your head split open, potentially no event can go unmemorialized. Every poorly chosen word and flare of temper can be taken out of context, microscopically analyzed, slanted, and repeated over and over until it becomes the popular narrative. From there, it becomes fact with which to manipulate.
Those too lazy to work, but ambitious enough to steal, are induced to riot. Those too apathetic to offer substantive assistance, but concerned enough to click a “like” button, make buffoons of themselves with gestures for actions that are provably false. Those too occupied wallowing in their victimhood, but sensing a long awaited opportunity to wreck revenge for the sins of the great-great-grandfather, terrorize the innocent and destroy their property.
When Trayvon Martin was killed, President Obama nearly cried and declared “this could have been my son.” He promised to ensure that “justice is done” when Michael Brown was shot. Freddie Gray was cause for soul searching, according to the President. The Walter Scott shooting was immediately elevated to a Federal case for the eventuality of Michael Slager being cleared and…well, because he’s a white cop who shot a black, fleeing felon which is the very definition of racism to Liberals.
President Obama even shed crocodile tears at the press conference for victims of the Mother Emanuel Church massacred by Dylann Roof and whined like a spoiled teenager that if Sandy Hook would not induce Americans to freely surrender their God-given rights, he just…like…Oh, my gosh, didn’t know what it was going to take.
The President’s refusal to prosecute the (legally speaking) minor crimes of petty theft and vandalism directed at Confederate flags and their owners as the hate crimes they are proves that not only is justice not blind, but that it sees in Technicolor.
If I tweeted a photo of me wiping my ass with the Gay Pride flag, the duration of my continued freedom would be measured in minutes.
Kathryn Steinle was allegedly shot and killed by an allegedly illegal Mexican immigrant allegedly released by alleged Federal agents allegedly ignoring an alleged request to detain from another jurisdiction…Allegedly.
Obama’s. Silence. Is. Deafening.
Feel free to leave your theory as to why in the comment section below. If you’re not too mean to me, I’ll hook you up with a fee electronic copy of my novel, L’homme Theroux.
On average, I’ve been called a racist about every two and a half hours over the past month. I suspect I’m doing something right. Not so much because I enjoy having venom spat at me (even though it’s kinda tasty in sweet tea), but because I’m a bit of a sadist. Watching smug Liberals come positively unglued is both entertainment and a piece of performance art I get to experience for free.
The second edge of the social media sword is the phenomenon of #noflagginchallenge where morally outraged petty criminals put on their best tough-guy swagger for the camera and steal a Confederate battle flag, often having violated private property boundaries to add to the machismo.
Please do not call me to jury duty when one of these brave, young foot soldiers for social justice picks the wrong redneck to fuck with. There will literally be no way a prosecutor can prove that case to me.
I’m not such a wild-eyed nut job that I lack an understanding of the need to prioritize. Foiling terrorist plots and prosecution of murders certainly take precedence over theft of what is in essence a piece of cloth or some paint on a chunk of stone.
Though important symbols they may be, you will not find me leaving cover to retrieve a fallen flag under fire. Call me a coward, if you like, but life is precious and not to be risked for a piece of kit.
The men on both sides of the War of Northern Aggression who picked up fallen standards, knowing full well it was a probable death sentence, did so not because of what the flag meant so much, but for its function. The Napoleonic tactics of the time required a visual reference for effective Command and Control.
Any highly visible object would have sufficed, but since armies already have flags and nobody in his right mind wants to hump around more gear than necessary, the flag makes sense. A fallen flag quite literally meant disarray and staggering loss of additional life, which was the reason for adding the red stripe to the third iteration of the Confederate national flag. To intentionally misquote from George C Scott in the movie Patton, “war isn’t about dying for your flag. It’s about making some other poor, dumb bastard die for his.”
Relatively low priority fails to explain the lack of Federal interest in prosecuting grave marker vandalism. Change the situation to swastikas or SS-lightning bolts spray painted on Jewish graves, or any surface for that matter, and the Federal government swoops down on the scene telling the local cops to get out of their way.
The obvious answer is “Confederate” is not a protected minority. My response is, “Why not?” With the possible exception of Indians (The casino type; not the call center ones), there are fewer Confederates than any of the recognized minorities. Even if you add in all the “neo-Confederates” (because Liberals’ standard operating procedure is to denigrate and shame individuals with whom they disagree by appending the modifier “neo,” as if it has a specific meaning), the total still isn’t very high. You would think that meets the definition of a minority.
I guess the question of whether all things Confederate are worthy of special legal protection boils down to the perceived voting block that can be delivered. Gays take time from doing their gay stuff to vote. As evidenced by every Obama election, blacks vote when he tells them to. Mexicans like to vote so much that even the illegal ones line up around the block.
However, dead Confederates have no votes to deliver, so they are out of luck. It falls to the living Confederates, and the right-thinking individuals who may disagree, but understand the true nature of liberty and tolerance, to send the exceedingly clear message to politicians that they will pay dearly for their shenanigans by being drummed from office at the first opportunity and refused an elected position ever again.
Nikki Haley, the Governor of South Carolina and Indian RINO, is desperate to hitch her vice-presidential wagon to whichever Republican she reckons has the best chance of defeating Hillary Clinton.
While kissing the ass of the N-double A-C-P, she showed herself to be a sleeper agent for Liberals by justifying removal of the Confederate flag from the memorial outside the South Carolina statehouse by recounting how badly her delicate little feelings were hurt and her self-esteem irreparably damaged because of what she perceived as…
Well, I don’t know what it was.
In her rambling retelling of the maltreatment of her parents, Little Nikki the Emotionally Damaged was short on specifics and long on emotions. Her narrative reads like a bad E.E. Cummings impression; lacking punctuation, capitalization, and making very little sense. If her resume is anything like the interview I read, there is nothing more than her name and keywords in the hope of triggering the software so she gets the interview.
From what I can piece together of Nikki’s tearful recounting, her parents are Indians (the Sikh kind; not casino). Mom wore a sari, and Dad a turban.
Imaginary or real mistreatment or suspicions or cross-ways looks (she isn’t terribly clear on the exact nature of the bigotry and discrimination she claims to have witnessed and experienced), Nikki is nursing a grudge she has used as a cudgel to exact revenge.
All right, Sugar Tits. If you want to play that game, I’ll be your huckleberry. Here’s my plan.
Even if you still haven’t had your civil rights restored after that last felony conviction, contact each of the one hundred thirty six Republican candidates for President and communicate to him politely and firmly that taking on Nikki Haley as VP or in any other capacity will guarantee his loss of your vote not only this election cycle, but any election he undertakes in the future.
I know this makes you a single-issue voter. It’s a placard I’ve worn for years, usually in regards to Second Amendment issues, but don’t let the term frighten you. It’s a moniker thrown out by assholes who think they are smarter than everyone else in an attempt to shame the passionate into being just as wishy-washy as they are.
On the state and local level, Governor of Alabama Robert Bentley and Memphis Mayor AC Wharton will be on the receiving end of these sorts of missives, as well. The damage has already been done by these two, but imagine the terror to be struck in their hearts by a substantial chunk of their constituency saying their political careers are effectively over for their actions.
Politicians assign weights to communications they receive. They figure each e-mail, letter, and phone call they get represents a certain number of people who feel the same way and a certain number of votes to be won or lost. What a wonderful way to punch far above your weight class since they assume each person speaking up represents a whole bunch who are not sounding off.
Remind these petty tyrants that we are not to be disregarded between election days.
Politicians are like zombies. They march toward noise, so make a racket that is impossible to ignore. Liberals understood zombie behavior a hundred years ago and have used it to shove all manner of bad ideas down our collective throat for no better reason than they want to see us perish from this earth.
It’s a distasteful game most are loathe to play for fear of sinking into the same moral rudderlessness as Liberals. We need to overcome this aversion. There is no way to wrestle a pig without getting some shit on you.
So, decide whether it is more important to you to win or fight fair.