Just watch and smile.
Presented without further comment.
Just watch and smile.
Presented without further comment.
This is a question that’s been bugging me for a while. I’ve been hearing this particular neologism of an adjective bandied around for quite a while, so I gave the Igors down at the adjective testing department of the Bill Sticker Institute for just messing around with words a call. “Oh that.” Said Igor, current project leader, in weary tones. “It’s just a rather crude insult Boss, not even worth getting out the Thesaurus to swat it with.”
“Well, you might think that, but I couldn’t possibly comment.” I replied. “It’s got a lot of Interweb types hot under the collar and shouting angrily at everyone they meet.”
“Oh all right, Boss. It’s only Sunday.” He grumbled, but I could hear the voices behind him. Some of the lads were bored and fancied a bit of a (maniacal) laugh. Even on a Sunday.
A few hours later, their analysis is on my desk. The term is (obviously) a contraction of ‘Feminist Nazi’, used to describe certain public feminists who say wild and wacky tinfoil hat stuff like “Cull the male population” because all us male humans are so uncouth and tewwibly wuff don’cha know. Generally being a ‘couth‘ sort of chap, I think this is not sufficient justification for culling anyone, and Mrs S would no doubt have a few stern words with anyone who tried to ‘cull’ her considerate and loving husband (Her words, not mine). She’s very possessive, and my beloved sometimes displays a hair trigger temper hot enough to scorch shadows onto sidewalks (See inset picture.) I love her to bits. Even if I have to step in to save her from herself sometimes.
To distil the analysis, those to whom the ‘Feminazi’ descriptor may be most accurately applied seem mostly to be unattractive (Mentally or physically) Socialist Academic types who deliver courses for commercially worthless degrees on ‘Gender studies’. Or according to a graffito often found in University toilets next to the toilet roll holders; ‘Liberal Arts degrees; please wash hands after use‘. Essentially displaying that the belief that their specific view (Which is usually about as ‘feminine’ as a pair of my Marcus Expensius Y-fronts) should rule supreme, and all us males are going to be casualties. Then when all men are slaughtered, or subdued and stripped of our troublesome gonads, everyone can (safely) stride ‘forward’ under the banner of ‘Progressivism’ which is the philosophy that promises wholesale theft of personal property, and no drink or drugs allowed to take the edge off its bleak nihilism. Unless you’re one of the self selected ‘elite’ of course. Then you become one of the ‘Alpha’ class, and you get to lord it over all the other zeebs, even if you’re one of those who need staff to help you find your own arsehole in the morning. Then huzzah! There will be world peace, apart from when the new Alpha prima donna class get squabbling over the morning concepts, then bring in their private security to duff up the opposition, or at least claim they’ve been rude and horrid and must therefore have their Alpha membership (and if necessary their gonads) forcibly removed at gunpoint. Then hordes of conditioned warriors will be primed to beat up the opposition for daring to ask them to pass the toast without saying please or licking the Socialist Academics boots. Which rather sums up the tone of public discourse on these topics.
Such beliefs as modern progressivism, and extreme ‘Feminism’ can therefore be seen to be firmly rooted in supremacist doctrines, which, as any psychologist will tell you, are themselves firmly rooted in near-monolithic inferiority complexes. Or in other words “I know best, so shut up Pleb and do what you’re told, or you’ll never work in this town again.” Which is just as bad as (if not worse than) the ‘sexist’ all-women-are-property-bend-over-my-sweetness medieval world view.
What these radical types miss by a country mile is that men and women have different skill sets, and are (obviously-duh) differently equipped from a biological standpoint. Therefore neither sex can be viewed as ‘superior’. Some men will always be better at some things than some women and vice versa. Individuals have differing strengths. Humans are not born to be ‘equal’. This is a simple observation, so simple that these highly educated Academic Social Justice types cannot comprehend it. Even if you were to figuratively take hold of their head and forcibly point their eyes in the right direction. However, giving everyone a fair shake regardless of genetic inheritance is a good idea, because everyone’s abilities, aims and objectives are different. Let everyone achieve as they may. The SJW’s and radical feminists think that ‘Social Justice’ (Which does not really exist) can be enforced by the heavy, Godzilla-like hand of the state. Unfortunately, involving the state in anything as delicate as the nuances of human liberty is an accident waiting to happen because one size does not, never has and never will fit all.
As for ‘Feminazi’, this term can only be applied to the quota demanding, men hating (Why? Don’t know, care even less) loveless nutjobs. Regular feminists, who only ask for an equal chance to prove they can do a specific task as well as their male counterpart and want to earn their say, are fine by me. Just don’t demand that the standards are lowered or ‘quotas’ applied to allow the less able to push the able aside. That never works. That’s not meritocracy, it’s mediocrity.
Is it just me, or is there something odd going on? We’ve had over twenty odd years of increasing histrionics over what I would ordinarily term mere bagatelles while more serious issues get glossed over and sidelined. Off the cuff remarks reacted to with such vehemence you’d think someone had committed a real crime. And the thing that raises a Spock like eyebrow the most, the Police often take the complaint seriously.
It’s not just that, far too much emphasis is being given to comparatively petty matters while more serious crimes seem to get a free pass, or never seem to come to trial as speedily as possible. Someone makes an off colour remark on ‘social media’ and there are a whole heap of frothing complaints, but murder hardly makes the front pages. Does this make sense to anyone?
Not me. Anyone else? I reckon it’s something environmental, although what it is I have no idea.
Update: Ahah! By George I think I’ve got it! I had a minor flash of whatever, and went to have a look at the analysis of red meat consumption over the last few decades. Canadians in 2010 consumed only just over half the red meat they did in 1980. Could this be a factor behind the rise of PC? Diet? More fruit and nuts leads to more fruit and nut cases? There’s a Ph.D and a Nobel prize in this for someone.
Seventy years ago, the Japanese surrendered to Allied forces after they were finally convinced of annihilation if they didn’t. The Fascist regime that perpetrated so many abuses against other humans is no more, yet it is felt modern Japanese politicians should apologise for the atrocities committed by that regime. As if mere apology was enough to make amends for the ill treatment of prisoners of war which included starvation and forced labour, brutal executions made routine, experiments on live human subjects which included dissection while alive. Yet I will argue that the modern Japanese are not responsible for the actions of their forefathers. I would also argue that the A-bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki were necessary at the time and saved many more lives than they took. The alternative would have been complete annihilation of Japan because the culture of that time was to die for the Emperor. And they would have done so, in their millions. Small scale examples of this mindset were demonstrated with civilians on Saipan and Okinawa leaping to their deaths rather than ceasing resistance to the allied forces. Which some contend were forced by the Japanese military. Shinzo Abe has it right. Enough with the apologising already.
Like with 17th and 18th century slavery, the time has passed, and no matter what anyone says, Western culture alone cannot be held responsible for the actions of the slavers. Those responsible are long dead, so why is there this ‘blame culture’ prevalent in modern western society? The fact that slavery still exists in non western cultures to this day seems to be conveniently bypassed. In the 17th and early 18th century Moslem Corsairs raided South western English and even Icelandic villages and towns for slaves. A Barbary raider even sacked Baltimore in continental North America, June 20, 1631. Is the Ottoman Empire available for comment? Don’t be silly. The same as I am not responsible for the outrages committed by Medieval Crusaders on the town of Acre or the Catholic Church’s grand inquisition. We are not they. We’re not a bunch of fcuking knuckledragging hillbillies who can’t forgive or forget. Society has moved on.
What I’m driving at here is that whilst we should never forget the brutality of our (and their) ancestors, the reason for remembering things as they happened should be? Yes, I’m talking to you at the back there. Why should we never forget the horrors inflicted by people on their fellow humans? So we don’t make the same mistakes ever again. Good. Lesson learned. The idea that the sharp edges of history should be somehow smoothed over in case the fine detail ‘upsets’ the thin skinned and hypersensitive is ludicrous. Can’t handle the facts? Aww, poor diddums.
What irks me most about all these apologies for every single bad thing done by people who might, or might not be in my, or anybody else’s line of ancestors is that they are counter productive and only serve to renew the resentment. Vengeance can only be relevant when the perpetrators of the original evil are still around. If those who did the wrong are dead then vengeance cannot feasibly be justified. The principle in law being that their debts and evil die with them. Harming someone’s offspring for a wrong perpetrated by their parents simply restarts the cycle. Likewise insincere apologies. Rinse, spin, repeat, but you’ll never be rid of the blood.
Hells bells, it’s Dragon Boat weekend, and I intend to be downtown in an hour or so with my (Japanese designed with Chinese and Korean made components) Nikon Coolpix 520 camera. Watching the Canadian sponsored dragon boats, maybe joining in the fun, perhaps popping into the Bard and Banker or the Irish Times pub for a beer and chicken wings. I do not wish to be apologised to by any visiting Japanese, nor will I feel obliged to apologise to them for acts committed before either of us were born. Life is too bloody short.
“The more you help some people, the more they need to be helped.” These words drifted across the breakfast table, making me blink. Now there’s an intriguing thought was my unconscious response. Mrs S had been working online, talking about one of her clients. One of the needy ones. One of several she has to deal with in her day to day. Members of ‘the clueless’ who, no matter how many times they are shown, assisted, mailed the instructions and generally babied along, keep on asking the same questions about the same old subjects. It’s almost like their ability to remember has atrophied to the point of nothingness.
I remember thinking; ‘I must pass that one on to the Axiom testers down at the Bill Sticker Institute for word juggling and infinitive splitting.’ So I did.
Update: The Axiom testers have come back with Proven. There are a lot of people in the world who fit this precise and pithy description. The lads down at the lab (See left) looked very pleased with themselves when they delivered this particular verdict. Well, I think they did. They’re mostly Igors, so it’s very hard to tell.
The good news is that these hapless members of the zombie apocalypse will probably be the first to starve to death if everything does go pear shaped. Not that it will of course. These are precisely the people that politicians buy the votes of with their endless promises of jam tomorrow and scare stories about the man-made (of course) heat death of the Universe. George Bernard Shaw called them ‘The undeserving poor‘. The rest of us, who can’t be bought or fooled so cheaply, will no doubt be the cash cows wrung out to dry so the pollies can keep their jobs.
Brian Wilson had it back in the 80’s.
Missing verse from the above in this live version;
I was praying to a God who just doesn’t seem to hear,
Oh, the blessings we need the most are what we all fear,
Love and mercy that’s what you need tonight,
Love and mercy to you and your friends tonight,
Love and mercy that’s what we all need tonight,
Love and mercy to you and your friends tonight,
Have a good weekend.
Funny the things you talk about while driving, but it’s why my good lady wife and I enjoy such a strong relationship. We talk about stuff. She’ll put forward a point of view, I’ll put in my ten cents, and more often than not, we end up surprising each other.
I forget how the discussion started, as I was dodging dozy drivers on our way back down to Victoria. Mrs S made some remark about male orgasms not being as intense as the female variety, of which we hear so much, to which I responded; “Not always.”
“Oh come on Bill, that’s nonsense.” My other half mocked. Well thank you ‘Cosmopolitan’.
“Seriously. Sometimes an orgasm can really rip you up, head to toe.” I explained. Which has on occasion been true for me. There have been times when ‘la petit mort‘ has completely shut down my brain functions and sent a massive surge down my spine for a few ecstatically intense moments, my back arching uncontrollably, my toes clenching and the sensation washing through me like a warm tidal wave on steroids, blowing my hindbrain like some whole body tectonic marshmallow detonation which completely drains me.
“Yes, but what about men who point and shoot, then just roll over and head for the shower?” She asked.
“Well, sometimes it’s like that.” I conceded, which is true. “Male orgasms vary in intensity, and you have to really go looking for the big ones, but you really know when they hit.”
“It’s odd you know.” She said. “A female orgasm gives a deep emotional connection, fulfills an intense need for more than mere sexual satisfaction. Male orgasms by comparison seem so, well, superficial.” She enlarged on the topic, leaving me to dodge round a particularly indecisive line of three pickup trucks. While I did, I gave a little thought to the matter. Honestly, I’d never given the subject that much cogitation. Well, you don’t. Not if anyone is listening anyway. It’s about as personal as it gets, and people don’t generally like having their sex lives discussed in front of them. There’s always that sense of attempted humiliation.
“It’s not something we men generally talk about between ourselves.” I pointed out. Which is also true. Men don’t really discuss sex the way women sometimes do. An air of one upmanship almost always rears it’s tiny one eyed head. “Men don’t generally talk about their orgasms because if anyone does, it just sounds like they’re bragging and no-one believes them.” Which is also true. We males are conditioned not to discuss matters sexual because for most of us it’s a famine rather than a feast, but no-one wants to admit they’re starving because everyone else will laugh at them. Even if they themselves are just as hungry.
I thought about that point for a moment and tried to create an analogy. Eventually I ended up comparing one appetite to another and posited thus; in this age of instant gratification; sex, like food, is often gobbled or consumed hurriedly or perfunctorily, like a person with a heavy thirst downing a pint in one. And speaking as a male, I’m often thirsty. Women are choosier, more discriminating, they lack a man’s immediacy, our hard wired hunger. For us males it can be any port in a storm, now. Which kind of explains the social need for prostitution and also why we men bolt our sex hurriedly because we’re secretly afraid it’ll be the last for some time. We always feel we’re on short rations, whether this is actually true or not. Which is why the male orgasm is often such a hurried affair. We consume it like junk food, hurriedly and without savour. We rarely take our time. Too often it’s “Come on darling.” Bang. “Was I really that good?” And the immediate hunger is sated. For the time being.
Nor do we Western men know how to talk about sex the way women do. Because we’re taught from an early age it’s like discussing what your turds look like in the toilet. Peer pressure and parental embarrassment condition us to consider it weird. Outlandish even. The only person we’re likely to have that sort of discussion with is our Doctor when he’s trying to work out what that strange pain is you’ve been getting for the last six months. Which may also explain why men use porn so much. Like a graphic novel it’s exciting and occasionally informative. And if you aren’t able to attract a sexual partner, or have never worked out how to navigate the secret maze from first smile to bedroom. Well, porn is all you got.
Furthermore, most ‘formal’ sex education is done in large groups, which let’s face it, is not an ideal forum. Discussing your most intimate needs is something only to be shared with a select trusted few, not a bunch of strangers, who, human society being what it is, will often point and laugh to shut down a discussion they feel uncomfortable with. Because we’re taught in the outside world that sex is ‘dirty’, not the natural expression of a basic human appetite. The salaciousness of it all gets in the way. It’s so, well, dishonest.
Then there are people who I will simply refer to as ‘vociferous outliers’, who, in order not to feel excluded and sidelined (Which from a psychological point of view is an expression of their own innate sense of inadequacy) will promote their own version of sexual reality as the ‘new normal’. Deliberately shutting those of us whose tastes are less exotic out of any reasoned discussion. Their way is the only way “So shut up you fascist you’re oppressing poor ickle me.” Like a plague carrying fly they land on any related, vaguely sensible discussion and infect it with their own preferences, no matter that they are the minority. Like Internet trolls they want to shut down the topic thread, because they can’t simply walk on by and let the grown ups talk sensibly. They have to leap around like a toddler in a tantrum to get their ‘point’ across. Even if it is only loosely connected with the topic under discussion. Which for most other people acts as a further barrier to modestly intelligent examination of the topic, and leaves the rest of us stuck where we started, hiding behind the metaphorical bike sheds at school, sharing our ignorance.
Rather ironic isn’t it?
Every so often I’m hit by a big dose of Deja vu. An internal nudging grin saying, “Well young Bill, you’ve been here before.” Yesterday’s attack of semi nostalgia came when I was busily lining up to take a picture opposite the Palais Garnier.
While getting ready to take my second shot, I was approached from behind by a fat, middle aged, middle European accented woman, who palmed a heavy gold coloured ring at me, appearing to pick it up off the floor, pressing it into my hands, saying how lucky I was. Which caught me off guard. Up until that moment, my brain had been happily going “This is nice. Hello trees, hello, flowers, hello Mr Sun, what a lovely Parisian day.” I’d just had a lovely Steak dinner with a beer and was about as relaxed as I ever get.
From what I could make out, she wanted me to ‘share’ my good fortune with her by giving her money so I could do what I wanted with a very heavy feeling man’s gold(ish) wedding ring. Had my old street senses been online at this point, I would have given her a tight little smile, waved her off and walked on. As it was, I wanted another shot of the building from my chosen vantage point at the pedestrian crossing’s edge and didn’t really want to budge.
Now I’ve seen this particular scam before, and this was one of the finer examples of the art. The ring was almost convincing, and even had me pulling out my reading glasses to examine it. But the question bubbled up in the vestiges of my nasty suspicious mind; why the hell wasn’t she taking this ‘lost property’ to the Police, instead of pressing it on a total stranger? Memory provided the answer. I’d seen this before. The Ring Scam. So I said, “No, no, you take it to the Police. It’s not mine.” And made to place the offending ring on the pedestrian railing. Ooo Sticker, you cunning old SOB. At this point I became acutely aware that I wasn’t watching my camera bag and pockets as closely as I should. My internal mental compass spun and suspicion gyro’s lit up, senses sounding for any unusual intrusions around my pockets. I’m acutely aware these guys often work in teams. So I quickly pushed the ring back at her, insisting that she hand it to the Police as lost property, making it plain that no cash was coming her way from my wallet. To my internal amusement she was getting quite shirty at this point. Then I ducked my camera into its bag which was zipped pointedly closed, managing to convince the scam artist that I wasn’t going to bite. I’ll give her this, she was persistent. She just didn’t seem to know she’d been rumbled.
Abandoning hope of getting another shot of my target, I moved across the street with a bunch of other tourists, catching up with Mrs S, who had gone ahead of me while I was being a happy snapper. My good wife asked (as wives often do); “What was all that about?”
“Con artist tried to pull the old ring scam on me.”
“Oh, so that’s what it was.” Mrs S has often been regaled by my tales of street life, and recognised the term immediately. We moved on. It was too nice a day to dwell on it and the bars were open.
In Chartres yesterday, picking up a minor bout of food poisoning. Mrs S has been hors de combat since last night, but the worst of it has passed me by with a brief but minor bout of feverishness and minor gastric upset. Getting back to our apartment via the late night Metro was an adventure, but we made it back safely, and that’s sufficient. I just played guard dog and nurse to my stricken other half, planted a “Don’t screw with me” expression on my face and helped her down, through and up out of the Labyrinth from SNCF to apartment. But that is beside the point.
Now Chartres is a nice looking little town. We rode the TGV to visit its famous baroque Cathedral, which is probably more impressive than Notre Dame. What we hadn’t bargained for was running into the end of a three day pilgrimage. When we arrived, we thought they were taking the banners and external sound system down. So we decided to have a look inside. About fifteen minutes into our slack jawed examination of the buildings internal majesty there was an announcement from the tannoy, asking everyone to leave the building. So we left and planted ourselves in a little bistro opposite and returned to our Cafe au Laits suitably impressed by the original medieval workmanship and state of the renovation project.
I’m not religious myself. God isn’t either. But one can’t help but be impressed at the skill and devotion generations of craftsmen have invested to produce such a grandiose, intricately engineered statement of faith in stone. Overwhelming is such a poor adjective.
However, what really impressed me was the crowds that started to arrive around lunchtime, singing as they came, filling up the edifice and surrounding square with their devotions. Phalanxes of the prayerful from toddlers to pensioners, whole Scout troupes of husky young men and girls accompanied by mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, priests and paupers, carrying banners and crosses representing their local church and nationality. All filling the streets with good natured noise. Not just French but British, Canadian, American, Swiss, German, Polish and even one Iraqi flag waved over the pilgrims heads. There were a lot of other national banners I couldn’t readily identify. All had taken a three day hike of 70 miles to get here. Their hiking shoes told the story.
In the square I saw priests taking confession from kneeling penitents, which to me at least, made a more powerful statement than the cathedral itself, because without the demonstrated faith, the building is just a pile of intricately carved rock. Incidentally yes, I took this picture myself and yes, have airbrushed out the identifying marks on the young ladies sweatshirt. Apart from image size reduction nothing else has been changed.
Then came the sermon. Which would have had radical lefties screaming ‘Islamophobiaaa!!!!’ at the top of their pathetically demented little lungs. Delivered in both French and English, the priest spoke of how a vacuum of faith has allowed radical Islam to thrive in the west and outlined strategies for combating its rise. I just sat and listened, ever more convinced that the ranting of morons like Choudhary and his ilk will get their wish of Religious war. Having seen the simple, quiet blue collar devotion of the Chartres pilgrims, I think the Jihadis will lose. Big time. All the radical Islamist gun and willy wavers have is murder and hatred, and while you might subdue faith with those tools for a while, it’ll always come back to bite you. Always.
Taking our daily post travail Parisian perambulation this lunchtime, Mrs S and I were meandering down the street when we noticed a fully armed Policeman, uniform almost blending into the painted wall on a street corner, automatic assault weapon at low port. “Hello. I think there’s a terror alert on.” I vouchsafed.
“Really?” Said my other half a little sceptically. However, suspicions were confirmed several times during our wander round Ile De La Cite, where we came across four distinct patrols of soldiers. Not Police or paramilitaries, but soldiers toting FAMAS Automatic weapons. Berets were being worn, but Spectra pattern helmets were slung within reach on belt packs.
Mile for mile, I’ve never seen so many police and military kitted up and loaded for bear. Locals, National Gendarmerie and full on military all looking for trouble among the tourists. While Mrs S and I were sitting and chatting, full of ourselves and Irish Coffee, three soldiers wandered close past us (Within two metres) in the Notre Dame gardens, giving our tourist camera bags the eyes over in case us two old farts were undercover Al’whatevertheyarethisweek terrorists and not two slightly inebriated Canadians enjoying the early evening sunshine. As for being a terrorist, whilst I freely admit to having done the odd Dance with Danger, Tango with Terror, and mildly unco-ordinated boogie with a bit of bovver, today we just smiled and chatted away to each other while the guys (and gals) with the guns meandered past.
A few years ago, armed Police would have made me very nervous indeed. Now, like the rest of the populace, we affected the “Oh so M’sieur has a gun? – Pff.” and got on with our lives. Apparently the heightened alert has been on for three months. Oh well, street life continues, and everyone’s out and about as usual. Drinking, eating, talking, doing business as usual. If it wasn’t for the Police and military presence, you wouldn’t have known.
Incidentally, while we were out, we didn’t see one of the notorious white faced French mime ‘Street Entertainer’ artistes. A few buskers and beggars, but only one clown, who honked his nose at a few Ile de la Cite tourists before moving on. If we’re lucky, the Police National have kept their zero tolerance policy on clowns after the 2014 Halloween ‘killer clown’ scare. Well isn’t that nice? Vive les Flics say I. Maybe they have a shoot on sight policy for all those white faced ‘artistes’, who go around terrorising tourists with their mimicry and invisible panes of glass.
Footnote: Just to clarify, I am of the Vetinari mindset when it comes to street mimes. They should all by chained upside down over hot tar facing a big sign saying; ‘LEARN THE WORDS’.