Tact can be practical, but only if appropriate, and never to excess. The standard is duplicitous under socialism’s rules for engagement. If you are not open-minded, if you fail to agree with all its celebrity and tech gurus demand, if you choose not to lead your life culturally as ignorant libertines, unrepentantly amoral and as dependents of the state, you are a pariah. If you guide by conviction rather than consensus, you are the worst kind of person, to be ostracized for daring to dream what others never will. Since the intellectuals pontificating before the Peanut Gallery (not the choir, which is too religious to suit their cult) took that wrong left turn towards a Utopia never found, they declare you are headed in the wrong direction, that you turned right. You will always be the racist, a sociopath, a fascist. And while the argument is never about left or right, it always will end with the might making right over those who are scared.
You note socialists to be very self-conscious, paranoid towards any dissension. They believe in total uniformity, of a gray null and void, dying of a dearth of cerebral colorful absorption, where the 4 x 4 is smooth and not one nail permissively protrudes. But you — you think for yourself. You are that nail. You must be hammered down for demanding the choice of a much fresher view for a rising sun. They do not approve originalism. Only revisionism.
When you play cards, your hand remains close to the vest. You insist on cutting the deck. The establishment seethes, claiming no one will know what they deal, so filled with cigar smoke is their room, casually declaring themselves too inebriated to see through their beer goggles. But you know this is a lie. They count the cards frequently. And with absolute impunity.
Once you win with a royal flush, they decide to ban smoking on poker night. It suddenly is a health hazard. You (silently) cough funny, your lungs suddenly engulfed with Philip Morris’ revenge. Yet you know this has transpired for time inconsequential to the narrative. You were why they changed; you were the threat to their future winnings. They attempt to prohibit booze, yet one or two still play sipping from some flask inside a paper bag. You never drank or smoked. You choose not to. And while there was no good reason to ban these items, they hypocritically violate their own rules, only to argue for the sake of agreeing, of being Little Sir Echo.
The community center demagoguery accused you of shooting the sheriff and the deputy while Slow Hand’s reggae blared the old steel drums’ song. They tried to ban guns, but someone brought another into the game room. All hell broke loose. No one could simply raise their hands so they won’t shoot. The perpetrator then insists he didn’t do it, that someone — the gun retailer, the gun maker or perhaps the dog down the street who farted — did in absentia. Yet the elite with guns are always guilty. It happens time and again as if planned, and it somehow is always your fault. They are incorruptible. You have to be corrected, or you might provide a better solution they cannot steal.
The moral to the story is, unfortunately, those you thought were your friends (Mr. Jones) also play cards with those who hate you between poker nights. You therefore are never invited. And as Mr. Jones sneaks through the backdoor, another named Mr. Atlas just shrugs while fighting over how much of your winnings are skimmed off the top for next week, explained as “needed for the expansion of public services for those said to have less than you with more”. You are never to benefit. Life’s lottery losers now wear expensive, trendy new attire. You still wear darned socks, threadbare slacks, your decades-old Chuck Taylors. You voluntarily give those in need the shirts off your back. The demagoguery will arbitrarily confiscate them because charity is not a matter they regulate. They cannot regulate choice. They cannot confiscate one’s heart. And true charity is a choice, an act of altruism and honest-to-God piety. One cannot coerce genuine benevolence or love.
That’s when you realize you’ve been had, that political correctness is the socialist trap for conservatives, to confine conscientious objectors opposing the establishment. Where your poker mates once approached the table on four legs, they now arrive on just two which suddenly are better than four, forever bragging to be more highly evolved. And once you need a third leg, they will pull the plug. You are then an expense too marginal for the social good. All these, of course, are the consequences. Your winnings are confiscated by the House. And the house always wins even when it doesn’t.
Not being afraid to call “a spade, a spade” forever condemns you as a racist, for you dared disturb the establishment’s latest hand of blackjack. And this supremacy only wins if the individual permits the unspoken rule perpetuate that seeing is not believing. Socialism, left or right, is still socialism. Only the soup labels differ.
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