Friday, December 9, 2011

There is no class warfare

The communists, like any collection of sociopathic rulers you froth over, used to have a list of heroes they plucked from history to suit their ideological agendas.  Some very interesting people made it onto the list.  One of them was Vlad the Impaler because of his superior negotiations techniques that frequently involved stuffing pikes into the heads of feudal aristocrats of Romania known as the boyar.

Of course, you probably shun such barbarism in favor of peace, love, bunnies, fluffy clouds made of sugar sprinkles, and other symbolic gestures to soothe your gentle, domesticated, and advanced sensibilities.  (Maybe a pike is too heavy for you.)  Fortunately, for those who hate the powerful but want to be cool about it (but not too cool [but cool enough so that at the high school dance, the girl will notice you but not get uncool enough about to be too cool]) there are a variety of less intense, always changing, always ineffectual anti-aristocracy icons you can use to channel your class envy.

Hardcore class warrior ready to
redistribute the shit out of your wealth
Notice I said channel your class envy, not wage class warfare.  I said that because there is no such thing as class warfare.  Warfare implies a contest of two or more actors that are struggling to achieve influence over one another.  By the simple fact that the powerful don't have to struggle to have influence over you means there is no contest going on. If the elite concocted a story about invading Botswana to rescue endangered penis mites, you'd sign right the fuck up.  Most of you were ready to clamor for a global draft when a non-existant gay blogger from Syria was non-captured.

Given that most of you were raised with an unending hail of shiny stickers for every fuck awful thing you concocted with your crayon box, it is of no surprise you'd have absolutely zero idea of what an actual conflict of influence looks like.  As far as you'd ever know, doing exactly what the elite say you should do just might be class warfare.  How in the Nine Ten Hell's would you know any different?

Assuming such a sad state of affairs, I offer the following advice: If I am in a position of power and I ask you to give me, not only all of your money, but all of your kid's and grand kid's money and you nod in agreement and give it to me without so much as asking a single question... that's not called warfare.  That's called rape.  Getting raped isn't a noble act of defiance. (Your emoaganda works overtime to tell you otherwise)

Now, I know you've been conditioned to accept the idea that if you play victim long enough, someone will come to your aid.  This, also, is not what warfare looks like.  That is what stupidity looks like.  If everyone is the victim and expects someone to come along to save them, then whose left to play guitar hero?

Finally, if we are dealing with a population that is too stupid to figure out the fundamental difference between waging warfare for your own defense and getting raped for the next few generations, why not join in on the pilfering and get a piece of action yourself?  At this point in time and for the foreseeable future, it is more profitable to rob you blind than to enlighten you.

There is no class warfare.  There will never be class warfare ever again.  As a collective, you are simply too stupid, too uncoordinated, and too fragmented to mount even a symbolic resistance.  I leave you with this prescient tidbit that has yet to be proven wrong:

"There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this, Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — forever."
George Orwell, 1984

1 comment:

  1. Buh..buh...but this is how our Baby Boomer Parents did things. I mean, they know, right?