I didn't want to broach this part of The Discourse and all, but when supposedly serious journalists started in on whether President Biden's references to his son were appropriate because they might rub some people the wrong way, I heard Bill Hicks in my head. Something along the lines of:Wow, what a-holes.
— Tommy moderna-vaX-Topher (@tommyxtopher) September 4, 2021
The original: @nytimes: "Biden, Still Grieving His Son Beau, Finds That Not Everyone Wants to Hear About It"
Now: "In Invoking Beau, Biden Broaches a Loss That’s Guided His Presidency" pic.twitter.com/6IHuzr52q6
The Authentic Grief dollar. That's a good dollar. Lot of authentic grief to go around. Covid-19, endless wars, the opioid epidemic (we really helped that last one along, sir, let me tell you...). But we're not getting positive reactions across the market, so we think you're gonna have to workshop your grief a bit, Mr. President. Just to give it a more broad, universal, generic appeal. You with us?
And my gut-level response to what that makes me feel about it is very like that of the late Mr. Hicks. Just kill yourselves you fucking fucks.
The media hovered like vultures over Al Gore's honesty, Hillary Clinton's laugh, Barack Obama's tears and said "Look, they're human. That means they die and we eat." And then both-sidesed people who promoted unregulated fossil fuels in the face of climate change, policies of torture and endless war, and featured columns from people who, with a straight face, suggested little kids could fling their bodies at a mass shooter to stop him. Eventually.
If it bleeds it leads. The bloodthirsty dollar. Always a great promotion. You know how it goes.
That's right. We have little kids going to school with bulletproof backpacks or with active shooter drills where they pile into a coatroom, but thanks to scum-life mouthpieces, we are supposed to be respectful when ever-growing numbers of kids are getting COVID because god forbid someone's little precious had their freedoms impaired by covering their wee Hummel figurine features with a mask. Because empathy and common sense have been beaten to death in a parking lot for not having the right Q rating.
Leave people's bloody personalities alone (unless they are unrepentant racist rapist narcissistic sociopaths, in which case, report that shit early and often). Report facts. We're fucking dying over here!
Ah the Fear of Death dollar. A very reliable mover. Pretty much our oldest trope....say, can we interest you in a flight to Mars in like, 2037 to escape all this? Some vitamins? A weapon to protect yourself in our future Mad Max Hellscape?
Fuck. This. For. All. Time.
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