Food, Virtue Signalling, and Narcissistic Supply

Recently, there has been some foofarah over the President’s food preferences. Namely, he likes his steaks well done and slathered in ketchup. The horror! The utter, unmitigated gall of a man to order food the way he likes it!

You know, it’s funny. My father still orders his steaks well done, and I’ve never quite understood why. Medium rare to medium has always struck me as the best balanced steak. I really don’t care for a bloody mess on a plate, so rare and blue rare are right out. If I wanted that, I’d just go to the Serengeti, chuck a spear at some wild animal, and eat the flesh raw. But well done, indeed, cooks out much of the flavor. So, yeah. Balance. But what business is it of mine to harp on a man for what he likes to eat? It is enough that I’ve my own preferences, and another man has his.

Food virtue signalling, or more aptly, food snobbery has been a thing for a very long time. And like political virtue signalling, it is all about display one’s superiority over another based on some irrelevant metric. “Look at me,” says the narcissist, “I’m superior because I like my steak rare.”

Of course, it is not merely steak that has suffered this effect. Wine has traditionally been a strong bastion of snobbery, but the practice has moved to craft beer. Now, again, don’t get me wrong, I like craft beer. For the longest time, I thought I didn’t like beer, because I found Bud, Coors, and Miller Lite to be foul-tasting  beverage abominations. But therein lies the point: I found them foul. Another man might like them. Indeed, even today these beers sell like hotcakes. Obviously somebody likes them.

If the President wants a Bud Lite, get him a damned Bud Lite. And just because you drink Dogfish Head 90 minute IPA (which I also find foul, by the way, as it’s a totally overrated beer in my opinion) doesn’t mean you are a better man, or have a more “elevated” palate, or anything of the sort. Here’s a great video about the irritating nature of the new craft beer snob types that have been popping up in trendy bars around the country:

 

Some years back, I remember reading about a blind taste test of wines, and a number of Napa valley California wines beating out French wines among the French. Naturally, the French were angry about this. You can’t virtue signal your superiority if you’re just rating what tastes good. Or, put in simpler terms, the French taste testers couldn’t cheat and give their own a leg up.

There’s this thought today that, like correctness in politics, there is correctness in food and drink. There is an Overton Window for acceptable steak. There are some steak places I’ve been to where ordering a medium steak gets me a dirty look from the server. As if to say “how dare you order cooked food from our establishment.” Given that Donald Trump likes his steak well done, I’m sure he’s dealt with much worse over the years.

Folks act like Donald Trump is afraid to try new things, afraid to eat superior food, or some such. It’s lunacy. More than likely, he’s tried his steak other ways in the past, and just likes what he likes. After all, if you like your steak rare for whatever reason, you’ll deal with a lot less dirty looks and peer pressure. Just like, it should be noted, that if you like your politics Leftist, again, you will deal with a lot less hate for it.

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Rare has been deemed by the nameless food correctness authorities to be the *perfect* steak. Anything else is wrongthink.

 

This is past the point of ridiculousness. Not only must your politics be perfectly correct, according to some nameless, faceless, cultural authority, but your food and beverage choices must be also. Or else, as some outlets have implied, you are not qualified to be President.

I wonder, however, if the people who push such narratives of correctness even believe any of their own bullshit. Do people really prefer their steaks rare in such mass numbers? Or are a healthy percentage of them doing it because the snooty server at the fancy steak place will give you a dirty look if you order anything else?

How many craft beer snobs drink the beer for taste, and how many drink it because it’s trendy? I suspect a great many folks do this out of trendiness. When I went to Germany some years back, I noticed that some of my favorite German beers were incredibly cheap there. I filled up on beer, let me tell you. I remember walking through the aisle of a kiosk store there, and seeing bottled water selling for a higher price than some of the best beers in the world (again, in my opinion). Amusingly enough, German purity laws regarding beer probably meant the water in the beer was probably of better quality than the actual bottled water. But never mind that. I had a great time at the breweries and such.

But one thing that stood out to me was how normally the Germans regarded their beers. To them, this was just how beer was. If you wanted one, you drank one. People weren’t sitting around sniffing their glasses, or some theatrical bullshit like you see sometimes in American craft beer bars.

If you like your beer, you can drink your beer.

It was that way in America, once too. Sure, our beers were probably crappier in those days, but I do miss the idea that if you liked a certain kind of beer, nobody cared. I wonder if steaks were once that way too. Wines, of course, probably weren’t, but we can blame the French for that. Though if you read your Bible, you’ll notice how wine didn’t seem to be a big deal in Christ’s day. Certainly the Messiah didn’t see the need to sniff the cork and aerate the wine before doing whatever with it.

Most of this is just theatrics. Maybe more folks like their steak one way as opposed to another, and maybe more folks like this beer over that beer. But it’s not about that anymore. It’s about putting on airs of self-righteous indignation every time someone does something differently with their food and drink. It’s about saying “I’m better than you.”

For a bunch of Leftists who once tried to ride the wave of prole resentment into Communism, it’s something of an irony. Their behavior has much more in common with aristocratic disdain for the peasantry than any sort of “workers of the world unite” bullshit.

Apparently, you can have infinite number of genders, my friends, but you must order your steak only one way.

Hitler is a Cliche

Good old fashioned rant time:

You know folks, I miss the days when there were other evil caricatures. More than just Adolf Hitler. You could call somebody Joseph Stalin, or Satan’s spawn, or the bastard child of Darth Vader and Jeffrey Dahmer. I mean, the sky was the limit, you know? You could be a blood-sucking Commie bastard, a zealous Puritan Witch Burner, if you were a real nerd, you could call somebody a member of the Fourth Crusade (oops… accidentally killed a boatload of Christians instead of Muslims. Uh… my bad?).

Not anymore. Everything is Hitler. Everything is Fascist or Nazi. That’s the only evil caricature anybody uses. There’s no creativity anymore. It’s just banal and cliche. Unoriginal. Oh, well, you’re not a vegan? HITLER! You have some policy beefs with Hillary Clinton? NAZI! You thought the Walking Dead was kind of boring? FASCIST!

Enough of the Hitler. I’m sick of Hitler. Tired of Nazi. Exhausted of Fascist. I don’t even care what they call me anymore, so long as they choose something different. When I hear a Hitler accusation, I just sigh and shake my head at the irritating banality of it all. If one-tenth of the Nazi accusations were true, the entire world would be the province of Zombie Adolf, Necromancer of the Undead Reich.

The accusations don’t sting anymore. They don’t even provide a chuckle of humor, or modicum of position reassessment. Never have I changed my opinion on something because I was accused of being a Fascist. There was a time when I would attempt to rationally convince my detractor that I was not, in fact, anything like what I was being accused of. But that never worked either, and so the default state rapidly changed to anger. That insult was beyond the pale, it was utterly disgusting to refer to someone as a Hitlerite. But eventually I became too tired to care anymore. Oh yes, call me a Nazi. Whatever. Like I haven’t heard that a thousand times before.

Adolf Hitler has become worse than a bad joke. Reductio Ad Hitlerum has become the default fallacy of the the mainstream media. Trump could pick his nose, and the resulting booger would somehow be a Nazi booger. He could play golf, and it would be Nazi golf (you see, the angle he holds his golf club at when he swings looks vaguely like a Nazi salute). He could eat a pretzel, and it would be a Nazi pretzel. Adolf Hitler, you see, once picked his nose too. And I don’t know if he played golf or ate pretzels, but hey, we’re not exactly in the domain of factual argument here. It doesn’t really matter what Hitler did or didn’t do. All that matters is that if the left calls someone Hitler, they are automatically disqualified from whatever it was they were doing.

This is a geopolitical stale fart that just keeps hovering around instead of dissipating into the ether like it ought to. Somebody fan this shit out of political parlance, please. The cliche has overstayed its welcome. Time to move on and insult people differently. SJWs like diversity, right? How about some diversity of insults? Just once, I’d like to hear them call us oh… I don’t know… a Paulican heretic or something. At least that would be original.

The Nazis aren’t coming back — they never were. If tomorrow thousands of Nazis clambered out of the woodwork, and put on their SS uniforms, and marched down the street, we wouldn’t even point and laugh at them. Laughing is reserved for things that are actually funny, or worth making fun of. Our reaction would be “oh God, not these things again.” The collective eyeroll would be a disturbance visible from low Earth orbit.

Donald Trump gets a nod on the cover of Time? Well, there are intrepid Leftists who want you to know that Hitler once received that honor, also, and that this is somehow evidence for the implication Trump is a fascist. My friend Nicki dissects this intellectual turd of an argument (and note, for the record, that she hates Trump and didn’t vote for him):

That said, this level of stupid needs to be nuked from space. Trump/Hitler comparisons because Hitler was once Time’s Man of the Year too? REALLY?

Well, post World War II, Persons of the Year also included John F. Kennedy, Pope John XXIII, Martin Luther King, “American women,” “The computer,” “The Endangered Earth,” Pope John Paul II, Barack Obama, Pope Francis, the Ebola fighters, and the American Soldier. I guess they’re all like Hitler too? And is President Obama twice as bad as Hitler, because he was named twice?

What. In. The. Everloving. Fuck?

The intellectual laziness and lack of objectivity in this article is stunning! It’s also stunning that readers “upvoted” this garbage, instead of ridiculing it and relegating it to the bin, where, in a sane world, such superb dreck should reside.

Reductio Ad Hitlerum continues to get worse every year. It’s so bad that not an hour goes by without someone on my Twitter feed being accused of Nazism, Fascism, Hitlerism… whatever. Every right-of-center politician is invariably compared to Hitler. Everything is white supremacy, white nationalism, racism, sexism, homophobia. Not a day goes by that I don’t see a Hitler comparison in the mainstream media.

Hitler was already a sort of cartoon villain. Nazis were the mooks of choice in Indiana Jones, cartoonishly evil villains who perpetually carried around the idiot ball. Inglorious Basterds took that up to the eleven (great movie, by the way). But now they aren’t even funny anymore.

It’s hard to imagine who is a more cliche villain at this point, Darth Vader or Adolf Hitler. If anyone put on a Hitler mustache, got on stage, and started ranting about the Jews, he wouldn’t even be laughed off the stage, or booed off the stage. Rather, people would be genuinely perplexed. They’d be asking themselves “is this retard for real? What gives?”

From now on, anybody who resorts to Reductio Ad Hitlerum will be ignored. Get with the times and figure out a more original insult. Calling somebody Hitler today is like calling them a poopyhead. And that’s real sad, when you get right down to it. Because Hitler was no joke, and his regime was one of the purest strains of evil in all of recorded history. But you, intrepid SJWs, have reduced that historical lesson to a tired old joke that isn’t even funny anymore.

That’s on you. Have fun with Trump, okay?

 

A “Shooter” at OSU, Little Green Fuckheads, and Other Assorted Prog Idiocy from Today

Yeah, the title is long. The post will be mercifully short.

So here’s a sampling of Progressive stupidity in no particular order. First, in Canada, a female MP from Alberta takes issue with the loss of jobs in her province, and delivers a speech that contains the word “fart” in it. Another MP, with the sort of pompous, perpetually-offended scowl reminiscent of every Gender Studies professor you’ve ever seen then declares how offended she is. The SJW cannot even bring herself to say the word “fart” and must, instead, spell it out to protect her delicate sensibilities. Take a look for yourself:

All I can say is, thank God I am not a Canadian MP. My language would trigger Miss Cat Lady into conniption fits.

For our second display of Progressive idiocy on this Monday, November 28th, I present the following: Charles Johnson of Little Green Footballs, a blog that, many moons ago, once made a lot more sense than it does today. Ole CJ used to be something of a center-right kind of guy, until he had an epic meltdown that resulted in the banning of something like 75% of his readership (including yours truly).

Today, he takes offense with people saying mean things about Castro. I, naturally, had feelings about this which resulted in my immediate blocking:

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Feel free to go to his Twitter to see the originals – blocked from my feed. He was taking offense that Trump said “assholish” things about Castro. He was also hurt that Hillary lost.

But today’s winner in the contest of who can be the biggest Progressive idiot goes to whoever was responsible for this headline:

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The problem? Machete-wielding guy had no gun. He tried to run people over, and resorted to the machete after crashing his Honda 4-banger. The gun graboids were practically drooling… and were resoundingly disappointed by the result. Also, said terrorist turned out to be a Muslim Somali immigrant, instead of the militant Amish gun owner the media was praying for.

My good friend Nicki has dissected this in detail over at the Liberty Zone. I highly recommend it.

Idiot of the Week: Reality is Racist

Rant warning. This is going to be bad. You’ve been warned.

You know, I see a lot of stupid shit on the Internet. I consider it a service to scour the bottom of the intellectual barrel in search of prime examples of Social Justice idiocy. And so I have a relatively high tolerance for stupidity, borne out of necessity. But there are times even I recoil from the eldritch horrors I find in the festering, wretched hives of Social Justice.

Today’s example comes from one Emily Crockett, writing for Vox.com. It’s instructive that Vox.com, like The Guardian, often supplies material for us brave, intrepid explorers of rampant idiocy. It’s like the the Mordor of Social Justice. Here, just take a look at this screencap:

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Reality is racist. Seriously. That’s the argument this captain of idiocy is spewing from her mouth-hole. I’ve taken dumps from which more intellectual truths could be divined.

Yes, the horror from the elder days of Marxist assholery has manifested anew in the form of Miss (I’m sure she’s not a Mrs., who the hell would put a ring on a finger attached to a creature this stupid?) Emily Crockett, Social Justice Warrior and minion of the land of Vox.com. Let’s fisk this sewage and learn what we may.

“Warning: Pokémon Go is a death sentence if you’re a black man,” Omari Akil argued in an essay at Medium over the weekend.

You know, I’m not exactly a fan of this Pokemon Go shit. I’ve seen full grown men (at least in body, anyway) wandering around like drooling idiots from a B-rate zombie movie, looking for Pikachu, or whatever. “Braaaaaaaains.” No, no brains to be found here, I’m afraid. But to call it a death sentence for black men? What do you even say to that sort of stupidity? Do black men spontaneously combust upon loading the app onto their phones? I found Jigglypuff! *BLAM*.

It’s an idiocy that has exceeded the dumbassery of lesser beings. It is the sort of intellectual diarrhea that could only be spawned from the mind of someone who thinks themselves educated and enlightened, for no lesser form of ignorance is sufficient to produce it. No, the sky isn’t blue, says the intellectual. Because blue is racist, since cops wear blue sometimes. If my ass had an ass, and that ass expelled a load of fecal matter which, itself, was able to take a dump, only then would you reach the level of mental sewage this creature has, somehow, managed to expel from her mouth, distill into typed form, and display on the Internet.

Does she take pictures of her turds swirling in the bowl too, I wonder? And does Vox.com post that, also? It would be a step up from this.

It’s a startling, even extreme-sounding claim. How could a virally popular smartphone game featuring adorable Japanese cartoon characters possibly endanger the lives of black men?

It doesn’t, at least no more so than it endangers the lives of other idiots wandering around like drunken zombies looking for Jigglypuff in between the legs of an Atlanta stripper at 2 in the morning.

But Akil’s explanation makes a lot of sense, and it is incredibly sobering. Akil says he rushed to download the game and try it out but quickly realized that its “augmented reality” interface also replicates the systemic racial inequalities of our regular, un-augmented reality:

Yes. I want you, dear reader, to let this one sink in. Pardon the shit analogies, both literally and figuratively, but I know of nothing more appropriate for this bile. This is a special sort of turd, the sort that, despite its foulness, and the gut-wrenching pain that led to its expulsion, must be grudgingly admired for its level of fecal perfection. What disgustingly unhealthy excuse for nourishment produced it? How, indeed, did something so flawlessly vile and nasty come out of a human being? What birthing pains were labored in its creation?

How, indeed, can any human being come to the conclusion that reality itself is racist? Let it sink in. Admire the perfect idiocy of this thing. Take it in. And then wonder how this human being can manage to put on pants in the morning, much less tie her own shoes.

Akil’s logic is simple: Black men are stopped more often by police for unusual or suspicious behavior. More police stops means a greater risk of violent interactions, and black men are disproportionately killed by police. Pokémon Go causes people to do unusual things in public spaces. Therefore, Pokémon Go poses a real risk to black men in America.

Why, I’m sure that police will be mortified to see an idiot staring into his cellphone, looking at stupid shit. Indeed, this could not possibly have ever happened before someone dumped this game onto the market, right?

Anyway, what does this tentacled, eldritch vagina want to do about it? If you’re black, no Pokemon for you?

A lot of people are making jokes about how the National Security Agency probably created Pokémon Go as a spy tool. Others are genuinely concerned about the potential ramifications for privacy and civil liberties:

Well, privacy concerns have some legitimacy here. I don’t want to install this crap on my phone either. But what the hell does this have to do with her premise that reality is racist, therefore no Pokemon for black people?

Another Pokémon Go user had a story about police and racial profiling in a viral post on Imgur. He said he’s a white man in his 40s who started bonding over Pokémon Go in a public park with two young black men — and was promptly questioned by police who thought they might be conducting a drug deal.

It ended happily, with the cop downloading the app himself. But it’s unsettling to think about how easily it could have gone the other way.

So an unconfirmed personal account of a police officer questioning people, who then decides to be interested in the game. THE TERROR. THE HORROR! JIM CROW! SLAVERY! POLICE BRUTALITY! How in the hell do these sorts of people manage to go anywhere, or do anything? Does Emily Crockett shiver in her boots when a policeman says “good morning”? Does she quake with fear if somebody talks to a black person in the park? Does tying her shoelaces fill her with dread and fears of racist oppression? Why, the shoelaces might be white!

But I suppose this is par for the course from people who consider “nice dress” to be rape, or who think that carting mattresses around campus, upon which you later decide to do a porn shoot, is somehow showing the eeeeevil patriarchy what’s what.

The level of stupidity these people call upon goes beyond the merely slow, or uneducated. It is a special brand of willful, knowing ignorance. And in the normal course of human affairs, this might be called a contradiction. A paradox of stupidity, as it were. And yet, there it is, before our very eyes, crawling up from the deep crevices of Karl Marx’s anus. Pokemon is racist. Reality is racist. Everything is racism, sexism, and homophobia. All of creation, the universe, and space-time itself has turned against black people. And for proof, we are supplied with a personal account of a cop asking about a crappy game from a couple of guys in the park.

I’ve seen more convincing fake-outs and exaggerations in soccer games.

I am reminded of the idiot who said calling a singularity a “black hole” is evidence of systemic racism in the academic community. Say what? No, the only singularity here is the hole inside your skull, which has sucked all possible intelligence into a parallel universe, and left nothing in its wake.

I took a breath this morning. Racist. My friend has a black car. Racist. Somebody right now is trying to find Pikachu in his toilet, and only succeeded in finding the floating relatives of one Miss Emily Crockett. Social Justice is an example of what one man termed a “Shit Midas”, a being which turns whatever it touches into excrement.

Miss Emily Crocket, congratulations on your achievement as Idiot of the Week, and Official Shit Midas of Vox.com. I proudly present to you four Golden Turds in recognition of this supreme achievement of cosmic stupidity.

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Humor: Don’t Steal People’s Stuff

On a more lighthearted note, it can be pleasing to see someone get their just deserts. In this case, the only flaw is that the deliverer of righteous fury felt bad after the deed was done. I’d be celebrating. Observe:

I work in an office with around 20 people and we all use the same fridge.

 

We’ve had problems for months with food going missing and no matter how many passive-aggressive notes management put out or naming of cartons/packets; shit keeps going missing.

 

One day some greedy shit eats my ENTIRE portion of leftover lasagna I’d brought in leaving me with no lunch and I was mad as hell.

 

As a hobby I am a competitive chili eater and I have experimented with making my own chili sauces so I have some 5,000,000 scoville extract in my cupboard (357 Maddog extract) and decided to lace some food with it and leave it in the cupboard. I got a pack of 3 sausage rolls, lifted the pastry off of one of them, dabbed several drops of extract at one end and put the pastry back on top and back in the packet. Revenge is a dish best served red fucking hot.

 

I have one hell of a tolerance to hot food and in hindsight this was a DUMB idea even if I was super mad that someone had eaten my lunch. I was bad and I feel bad.

 

2 days later my colleague (it turned out to be the fat gal in the office) starts screaming in agonizing gastronomical pain and we have to call an ambulance for her. She is legit having seizures and vomiting and crying and everyone in the office is freaking the hell out She was taken to hospital by ambulance and discharged a few hours later (thankfully) once the pain had subsided.

 

Food stopped going missing.

 

TL;DR Someone stole my food, I put them in hospital

The author purports to feel bad for putting this woman in the hospital, but note how effective the defense was: food no longer goes missing in the office. This was a fat woman who, by virtue of her fatness, clearly did not need to be scarfing down her coworkers’ lunches. She wasn’t starving, obviously. And she kept right on doing it until she met unpleasant consequences.

Bravo, good sir. Keep up the good work, and stop feeling bad about it!

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The ShirtStorm Social Experiment

Back in 2014, Matt Taylor was condemned by the media for wearing a shirt depicting scantily clad pinup girls with guns, cars, and helicopters during a press conference about his achievements surrounding the ESA’s Rosetta mission. The man landed a probe onto a comet, but had to deal with such accusations as “one small step for man, three steps back for women,” and other radical feminist nonsense.

Amusingly enough, the shirt was designed and made by a female friend of his by the name of Elly Prizeman, who now sells a line of similar clothing. Naturally, being the provocateur I am, I had to have my own. A few months ago, I ordered the same shirt from her site. For awhile it sat in my closet more or less unused, because I was waiting for just the right sort of moment to wear it.

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Besides, I just like the shirt anyway. It’s ridiculous, and anyone who knows me knows that I am also ridiculous.

Some time ago I decided to try a social experiment of sorts. I wore the shirt to the family-friendly Food & Wine Festival at Busch Gardens, a Tampa-area theme park. I was hoping to get a rise out of people, to see offended scowls, muttering tones of disapproval, or even outright confrontation. I saw none of this. There wasn’t a single scowl, muttered remark, or disapproving glance. The shirt did, however, receive a number of compliments, an enthusiastic vote of approval from a few tattooed bikers, and joy from one of the park workers who actually recognized Elly Prizeman’s work for what it was and was thrilled to see the shirt that launched the shirtstorm in person.

So, while I was pleased to note that I could wear the shirt in public without a mob of angry feminists coming after me, I was disappointed that I was unable to offend anyone with the shirt. So I decided to try the same social experiment at a different venue: a local car show. Hundreds of muscle cars lined up in the hot Florida sun for this particular event, and it was likewise a family-friendly affair, so I brought along my 18-month old son and donned the shirt.

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Not exactly my best picture, but there you have it. Side note: my son enjoys car shows. Every revved motor got his attention.

Everybody wanted to know where I bought the shirt, so that they could get one (Elly, I may have just sold a bunch of shirts for you). One of the female muscle car drivers was downcast. Not, I should note, because the shirt offended her, but because everyone was checking out the scantily clad women on the shirt instead of her (she was half-joking, mind you, but still). She asked if the shirt-maker also made dresses, to which I replied in the affirmative. I wouldn’t doubt if she patronized the seamstress in the future, also.

Again, not one unkind word or furtive glance. And, if anything, an even more enthusiastic reception for the shirt from both men and women. Forget my car and the work I’ve done to it — everybody wanted to know about the shirt.

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Forget the V8. It’s all about the shirt.

The lesson from this little social experiment is that radical feminism, while it controls media, college campuses, and has a strong voice in government, has little impact on the sensibilities of the common man. Go to a theme park or a car show, and far from being offended by such things, they want to know where to buy one themselves.

Matt Taylor’s mistake wasn’t to wear the shirt, but rather to  do so around a hostile media establishment. I doubt his coworkers, male or female, cared one whit. In fact, if the reaction at both of the venues I mentioned was any indication, people probably admired him for wearing it. Once again, modern feminism is making mountains not just of molehills — but things that weren’t even molehills to begin with.

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