As befits Good Friday, my post today is as bitter as the passover herbs. Turn and look back, all ye, at the Egypt we should flee. Freedom is a wasteland for many long and weary years of tramping: but beyond it, the river, and beyond that, the promised land flowing with milk and honey.
Being an honest gentleman not particularly brave or bold, but also not particularly interested in being lead by a lemming mob possessed by extraordinary popular delusions over the lip of an abyss into madness, I have on many occasions received comments, or, rather, white noise contorted into the shape of words, from various gibbering of poop-flinging yahoos, maudlin waifs, cringing serfs, drooling children, shrill man-boys, cocoa-sipping pajama boys, gormless Eloi, eunuchs, and nyctalope cannibal troglodyte Morlocks of the Left.
The mob dislikes anyone who does not worship the mob, their Glorious Leader, or whatever fickle idea, bright as a butterfly, that wanders through their collective empty heads during the current news cycle. They will, of course, dislike with equal disdain anyone who does not worship the brief and fugitive idol darting before their glassy and unblinking wide-open eyes tomorrow, even if the first directly contradicts the second. Logic is not their strong point.
Normally I do not mind. I am as patient as Job, and so entertain any comment that does not devolve either into swearwords or Holocaust denial. However, on two and only two occasions, the comments were so blatantly dishonest, so angry, so unrelated to reality, so starkly, shriekingly, shockingly insane, that my patience was exhausted, and the conversation could not continue.
Instead of a dialog, I was exposed to overhearing a ranting monologue addressed to an imaginary character in the ranting moonbat’s head, which the moonbat could not tell was not me, even though there was no resemblance between me and the imaginary character.
I was not permitted to testify on my own behalf to say what I believed or did not believe. THEY told me what their theory said I believed, and the tiny fact that, in non-moonbat reality, I believed no such thing — ah! That was ruled as not being evidence.
Each time I asked either moonbat to quote back to me anything I had said to justify the assertion that I believed what was being attributed to me, both moonbats simply ignored the requests. It was as if I had not spoken.
Usually, when a normal but unskilled debater falls into a straw-man argument, you can correct him, and he will not continue to argue against a position you have repudiated, and will not continue to insist you said something you did not say.
One of the two moonbats even had the effrontery to say that he did not believe me when I told him what position I held on the issue. No, his friends had read something I wrote, and so they told him what was the position I held. His friends were better witnesses of what were the thoughts in my head than was I.
For some odd reason, both outbreaks of Lovecraftian madness concerned the same topic: my attitude toward ages past.
In one case, it was the Middle Ages, and in the other, the 1950s.
I thought this an odd coincidence. What is it about the past that makes the raving moonbats so much more lunatic and noctilionine than usual?
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