Unamusement Park

Repent.

My opinion of the modern world is best illustrated by these words.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Yeats, “The Second Coming”

My opinion of the modern world is second best illustrated by these words.

A man is lying on the street, some punk has chopped off his head,
And I’m the only one who stops to see if he’s dead.
Turns out he’s dead.
That’s why I’m singing:
Oooooo, what is wrong with the world today?
(What’s wrong with the world today?
<mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble>)

Flight of the Conchords, “Issues (Think About It)”

With all these gyres widening, innocence ceremonies drowning, and blood-dimmed tides on the loose, it is easy to become disheartened, bitter, homicidal, or glum.

“Fuck this shit,” I hear you say. “Fuck the war, fuck the economy, fuck global warming, and fuck the price of gas. Fuck the Democrats and fuck the Republicans, but especially the fucking Democrats, and especially the fucking Republicans. Fuck Obama, fuck Biden, fuck Boehner ’til he cries. Fuck the radicals liberally. Fuck the libertarians freely. Fuck the socialists according to your needs, and fuck them again according to their abilities. Fuck the birthers in Hawaii or fuck them in Kenya, it’s all the same to me. Fuck the truthers with an iron-rich sphere. Fuck the relativists and tell them it’s traditional in your country. Fuck the haters, I fucking hate those fucks. Fuck Iraq, fuck Iran; fuck Egypt and Afghanistan. Take a fifteen minute break, then fuck Libya. You know what, fuck every other Middle Eastern shit-hole sand pile, too. Fuck the terrorists. Fuck all the Muslims. Fuck the Arabs and fuck the Jews. Fuck Rachel Corrie with a bulldozer. Fuck the blacks and fuck the Mexicans. Fuck the Asians in the library. Fuck South Africa until they bring back apartheid. Fuck the feminists and make them call you ‘daddy.’ Fuck the Conscious Men, and hey, Dear Woman: Fuck You Too. Fuck the sluts, they’re asking for it. Fuck the betas. (Someone’s got to do it.) Fuck the lesbians straight and fuck the straight girls bi. Fuck the bi girls, they’re crazy in the sack. And while you’re at it, fuck the crazy girls too. Fuck the rapists before they fuck you. Fuck cancer, fuck AIDS, fuck herpes, and fuck swine flu. Fuck the criminals and fuck the police. Fuck mom and dad, they don’t fucking understand you anyway. Fuck Bristol Palin and get her pregnant with another retarded baby. (Or was it Sarah? Ah, fuck it.) Fuck Rebecca Black. Fuck her on Thursday, Thursday. Fuck her again on Friday, Friday. Tomorrow is fucking Saturday, and fucking Sunday comes afterward. You know what? Fuck ’em all. Fuck me, fuck you, fuck the whole entire world. Go fuck yourself.”

I understand your frustration, and I respect your enthusiasm, even as I fear your psychotic babbling. But I am here to tell you: fucking is not the answer! We cannot fuck our way out of this predicament. Our generation’s Berlin Walls will not be brought down by our collective jackhammer thrusting, despite the apparent aptness of the metaphor.

I'm paraphrasing.

Anyway, I came up with this thing. I call it compassionate reactionism. It’s like ordinary reactionism, only… slightly less hateful. It’s reactionism you can talk about over tea with Grandma. Over the next few days, I will attempt to explain the concept by examples. Hey, it’s not like I’ve got three other series going on already…

The compassionate reactionary on… feminism

So you’ve decided women are just as good as men. Maybe better.

No, definitely better.

I happen to agree. Girls are soft and they smell nice. That alone guarantees their superiority. Oh, you meant something different. Equality and shit, right? But you’ve already got that.

Well anyway, I’m happy you’re so strong and empowered and independent and you don’t need a man and your vagina delivers monologues. Why you keep asking for special treatment is a bit of a mystery, but… whatever. We can put that aside for now. I really hope your Ph.D. in Gender Studies is six prime reproductive years well spent. (See how compassionate I am?) However:

Don’t come crying to me when your feminism meets reality, and reality kicks the shit out of you. This is the kind of thing I’m talking about. (I feel like we’ve been over this before, albeit in an altogether less compassionate way.)

If you drink and drug yourself into a stupor and wake up in a strange bed with a hangover, a tattoo, a bad case of crabs, and a whole lot of regret, you don’t get to wash away your culpability (or your crabs) by declaring yourself a rape victim. Light all the candles you want. That’s one night you can’t take back.

You say you have a right to not get raped. At first glance, this appears to be a true statement. However, your behavior has lead me to believe you have confused “right to not get raped” with “indestructible barrier protecting your vagina (etc.) at all times and in all places, allowing you to do exactly as you please without any consequences.”

The thing about rapists is: they don't need an invitation.

You say there’s a sexual double standard. I believe you. You’re still a slut, and I still don’t respect you. I’m sorry if I’m not sufficiently empowering you, but you just aren’t relationship material. Now flip over.

No, I don’t have a condom. That’s why we gave you abortion rights, isn’t it?

The compassionate reactionary on… gender

So you’re dissatisfied your genitals. Hey, who isn’t?

But you… you take it further than most. You’ve decided you’re a woman in a man’s body, or a man in a woman’s body, or maybe even a gay man in a straight woman’s body. Something crazy like that. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you were mentally ill.

mental disorder (noun): a mental or bodily condition marked primarily by sufficient disorganization of personality, mind, and emotions to seriously impair the normal psychological functioning of the individual

Anyway, you’re not happy with how nature identified you, meaning what’s between your legs, so you’re self-identifying as something else. That’s nice. I hope your decision makes you happy. (See how supportive I’m being?) However:

You can’t tell me what you are. This is the kind of thing I’m talking about.

Well, you can tell me, but that doesn’t mean I have to believe you. I’m going to identify you however I like. Probably by how you look. If you don’t like it, don’t talk to me. Definitely don’t try to date me. Because if you look like a guy and talk like a guy but you say you’re a pretty little girl on the inside, well… I’m not going inside to check, if you know what I mean. Maybe your dick self-identifies as pussy, but mine doesn’t buy it.

Natalie Portman: 100 percent irrelevant. If you had just Googled "transgender," you would understand why I need this image right now.

You’ve got your freedom of association, so don’t associate with me — by which I mean, don’t try to fuck me. But I’ve got my freedom of thought and freedom of speech, so don’t try to fuck with me either.

Don’t worry. I’m just getting started.