“It’s now very common to hear people say, ‘I’m rather offended by that.’ As if that gives them certain rights. It’s actually nothing more… than a whine. ‘I find that offensive.‘ It has no meaning; it has no purpose; it has no reason to be respected as a phrase. ‘I am offended by that.’ Well, so fucking what.”
Social media has become a hellhole. A watering hole for the society of the perpetually outraged. A nirvana for people so immensely talented in the art of extracting offense from the highest praise. Heaven for those who jump out of bed in the morning with the sole aim of reaching their outrage quota; those who live by the motto “take offense first and understand later”
The citizens of the society of the eternally offended have become mindless zombies, fueled by their righteous anger and nourished by think-pieces and thirty-tweet threads. There is no original thought in this new society; its citizens peek out of their covens to gauge the general consensus and then furiously type out dissertations that reiterate these opinions. They must be careful not to stray too far from what everyone believes lest they find themselves cancelled with a t and an exclamation mark. These worker bees buzz around the web, tirelessly sifting out the asleep and the slightly dozing off, burrowing deep in search for employment information with which to punish these errant deviants.
The citizens of the society of the perpetually offended are so voracious and dedicated that they will consume their own from time to time. They patiently lie in wait for anyone-even a fellow citizen- to forget to cross their Ts and they pounce. An erstwhile prominent offence taker and outrage expresser is cut down mercilessly by fellow citizens who admit they always knew this person was problematic all along. The bottle is spun again and it is the turn for another offense taker who was just taking offense at a fellow offense taker to be put down. Slowly, everyone is torched, but they bounce back quick. They have to, a spot in this society is never open for too long before someone runs in and fills it with their own fifteen dollars and seventy five cents words.
They steamroll their way through the interwebs, flattening every and anything in their wake. If Jesus descended today from the heavens to heal the world in a chariot of fire surrounded by a million angels, he would be cancelled with a t and an exclamation mark for reasons that will be outlined in no less than one thousand tablets filled with words make sense to the members of this society and no one else. Then another faction of this society will creep up to cancel these people for cancelling Jesus and will in no less than two thousands tablets outline the reasons why the cancellation of Jesus is really the real problem. The People for the Ethical Treatment of Stones (PETS) will then unleash an incoherent rant asking why we write on stones and not on babies; why do we breastfeed our babies but leave the stones to fend for themselves?
The slogan of this society is See the offense you want to see in the world. Offense can be drawn from every single thing-cotton candy, a baby’s laughter, a drop of rain- and if you do not agree with this then you are the reason for world hunger and global warming and you are cancelled with a t and an exclamation mark.
I remember the moment I stopped feeling.
Yet another bomb had been detonated
Scores of people had died yet again
As usual, I grabbed my phone and made to join those already furiously criticising the evil. This was an act I had performed over and over again but this time I could not find the words-or the will.
I was tired.
What could I say that I haven’t already said?
All the curses have been uttered;
All the anger expressed
The perpetrators damned to hell over and over again.
How many more ways could I condemn the evil,
when even as I say it I know it is only a matter of time before the next one?
My thoughts are with…
The hottest part of hell belongs to…
Rest in Peace.
What exactly do we mean when we tell people to be careful?
“Watch out for any bombs!”
“Be careful not to get killed!”
Is it not strange that we impose on others rules that we have created and then discriminate against them based on these rules?
In many parts of the world the male child is revered while the girl child is a consolation prize; the dry bread you chew on absentmindedly while waiting for your main course to arrive.
I asked the elders: why is the boy child preferred to the girl child?
Well, they said, a girl cannot carry on the family name. She will marry and change her name. The boy is more valuable because the lineage lives through him.
Wait a minute. Aren’t we the ones who made it so that the female has to change her name? Her X chromosome does not dictate what name she bears. There is nothing in her makeup that says she must change her name; same way there is no reason the boy cannot change his. Aren’t we the ones who say children must take their father’s names and not their mother’s? We have painted the fish pink and then banned pink fish from the ocean.
The solution is simple. We must allow women to keep their names if they want. Let children bear their mother’s name. Let the lineage live through the one who births it.
Shut up. You women of now-a-days want too much.
A woman’s lifespan as chattel begins the day she is born.
Two babies are born: one male, one female.
They are christened Mr. X and Miss X in the names of their first owner.
He will remain Mr.X until the day he dies, barring this and that
He belongs to himself and himself alone. His name reflects that.
She belongs to whatever male owns her at the time; her names reflect this.
She will be Miss X until she marries Mr.Y, at which point she becomes Mrs Y. If things go well, this will be the only change she makes. She will forget about ever being Miss X and completely immerse herself in her new identity. All her children will be Y with no trace of her original identity.
But things do not always go right. Mr. and Mrs Y decide to split up. He remains Mr. Y.
The divorce is barely official and the whispers begin:
“Why is she still bearing his name”?
“My children are Y and I want to have the same name as my children.”
“Irrelevant!” the crowd yells. “You no longer belong to him and must must return to being Miss X until you find a new owner who will give you his name.”
“But this has been my name for 20 years. It is my identity.”
“It is his name! Move on!”
Little Miss Y sees this and says to herself: “I will never change my name. If my brother does not have to worry about this, then why should I?” She marries the thorn of her flesh and does the unthinkable: does not change her name to reflect new ownership.
The crowd goes mental. “What is this madness?” they rage! “Women of now-a-days are ruining everything!” The crowd tear out their hair and roll around in ashes, stricken with grief and insanity. Men who die with the names they are born are the most confused. Men who do not even have to change their title-Mr. at birth and at death and everything in between- do not understand why this woman would want to keep her name.
The more rational people in the crowd say: “Okay, even if we permit you to keep your name, what title will you use? Will you be Miss or Mrs? You are married but you still have your old owner’s name so how will this work?” They smirk, pleased at having trapped her in this conundrum. How shall she escape this dead end?
“Well I will be Ms. Y”
“Ms? Isn’t that for old unmarried spinsters?”
“No. It’s the female equivalent of Mr. It can be used by all women: single, married, divorced, widowed, old, young.”
“Have you at least considered hyphenating your surname and being Mrs Y-Z? It’s not ideal but it is still better than this nonsense.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why don’t you want to take your husband’s name? Are you ashamed of him?”
“Why doesn’t he take my name? Is he ashamed of me?”
The crowd goes berserk, incandescent with rage.
“Arrrghhh women of now-a-days have ruined everything! Fuck you feminism!”
“That’s not all,”says Ms. Y. “Mr. Z and I are having a baby, and all our children will have both our names.”
The crowd spontaneously combusts.
There once was a man and a woman who lived in a shoe.
The man had his role to play
Build, hunt, and protect.
and the woman did too
Cook clean and birth the young
There once was a man and a woman who lived in a shoe.
Women aren’t women anymore! The angry man grumbled
Our grandmothers always had food on the table
and the house was always spotless
Our grandfathers dared not enter the kitchen or pick up a broom
Women of now-a-days want to outsource the cooking,
he spits angrily and bangs his fist on the table
Crack! Oh crap. He will have to call the carpenter to fix that.
What is that sound?
Drip drop drip drop drip drop drip drop drip drip drip!
Ugh the bloody tap. Wasn’t the plumber just here a few days ago? By God, it is impossible to get reliable help these days.
Why just the other day, the mechanic tried to fleece him. And what about the builders who he hired to build the house. It took them almost a year over budgeted time to finish.
His stomach grumbles. He hopes she picked up some chicken at the store. He is craving a nice chicken stew.
What is taking her so long? She is going to come back from work claiming to be tired-like he doesn’t work as well– and then suggest he eats something she bought. Imagine that! Women of now-a-days. Our mothers wouldn’t have dared you know. They raised the children and cooked feasts without complaints!
He feels a cold coming on. He must remember to book a doctor’s appointment, lest it be fatal.
Ugh it’s time to pay school fees again. She really needs to start pulling her weight financially. She works as well so there is no reason she shouldn’t pay half the bills. After all isn’t that what feminists want?
Cook, clean, birth the young+provide
Pay someone to build, eat what another has hunted, provide part of it
Women of now-a-days.