Category Archives: leftards

You Can’t Be Wrong If You Silence Dissent (With my thanks to Declan Finn for the title)

The brilliant Dr. Glenn Reynolds of Instapundit was temporarily shitcanned from Twitter and was only unblocked if he promised to delete an objectionable post that urged motorists to run over rioters blocking traffic in Charlotte, N.C.

“Yes, that was my post,” he wrote in the email. “It was brief, since it was Twitter, but blocking highways is dangerous and I don’t think people should stop for a mob, especially when it’s been violent.”

Reynolds also expanded on his comment in a post to his blog:

“I’ve always been a supporter of free speech and peaceful protest. I fully support people protesting police actions, and I’ve been writing in support of greater accountability for police for years.

“But riots aren’t peaceful protest. And locking interstates and trapping people in their cars is not peaceful protest — it’s threatening and dangerous, especially against the background of people rioting, cops being injured, civilian-on-civilian shootings, and so on. I wouldn’t actually aim for people blocking the road, but I wouldn’t stop because I’d fear for my safety, as I think any reasonable person would.

” ‘Run them down’ ” perhaps didn’t capture this fully, but it’s Twitter, where character limits stand in the way of nuance.”

riot-3Rioting, looting, setting shit on fire, and trying to toss an unconscious reporter into the flames is NOT peaceable protest. It is NOT covered by the First Amendment.

Blocking traffic like the last set of piss guzzling bug fuckers and preventing a child from getting medical care is NOT peaceful.

Jumping on top of innocent people’s vehicles and threatening them is NOT peaceful.

And Professor Reynolds is absolutely correct. If these savages are blocking the roads and threatening you, there’s no reason for you to stop. None.

Meanwhile, at least one British newspaper is evacuating its bowels because a man drove through the rioters brandishing a gun, and *GASP!* he was WHITE!

But look – this post isn’t about the protests riots. It’s about silencing your opposition.

riotProfessor Reynolds described a perfectly reasonable reaction to being threatened by violent mobs – KEEP DRIVING. Yes, he did say “RUN THEM DOWN,” but anyone who’s not a blithering fuckwit understands that when you’re surrounded by agitated throngs of malcontents, jumping on cars and setting trash on fire, you keep moving. Period. It’s certainly preferable to getting a beatdown at the hands of “protesters,” who think rioting and destruction of property are legitimate outlets for their rage at societal injustices.

And for this thought crime, Twitter suspended his account until he promised to remove the “offending” tweet.

Do you remember what Social Justice Howler Monkeys do when they don’t agree with someone? They riot. They threaten the employment of the individuals with whom they disagree. They report their social media accounts in an effort to shut them down. They even doxx them and threaten their loved ones.

And, of course, they try to shout the opposition down a la Trigglypuff.

They don’t want a debate. They’re scared of being proven wrong. They’re terrified of their worldview being challenged in any way. Any speech they don’t like, immediately gets shut down.

Like Dr. Reynolds.

Like Milo Yiannopoulos.

Like Mike Williamson on numerous occasion thanks to a howling, perpetually offended twat named Natalie Luhrs, who decided to stalk his social media and report his offensive speech.

In June 2015, a white supremacist shot up a historic black church in Charleston and killed nine worshippers. Williamson went online and tweeted a joke about it. Appalled, Natalie Luhrs of Radish Reviews began going through his twitter feed and Facebook page to see if he’d made similarly offensive comments. He had, and she documented quite a number of them. Williamson was eventually suspended from Facebook on account of his racism, though he quickly switched to an alt account and kept right on going.

Anyone with whom they disagree needs to be shut down and silenced, because it’s easier to shout into an empty room and then proudly beat your chest that no one could refute your incoherent screeches.

Debating, learning, accepting different points of view – all that requires effort, which they’re not willing to put forth.

It’s much easier to scream, “ALL WHITE COPS ARE DEVILS” after a police shooting of a black man (without realizing or caring that the officer involved was African American) than it is to stop, listen, consider, and gather facts.

It’s much easier to silence your opposition and bully them into a corner than it is to have the courage to accept a different worldview as valid or correct.

Twitter and Facebook aren’t government entities, so this is not a First Amendment issue. When push comes to shove, they have the right to control what people post on their platforms. That’s not the issue here. The issue is this propensity to silence viewpoints with which they do not agree. The issue is the inability to tolerate dissent. The issue is outright cowardice.

The first reaction is not to consider the facts and examine them, but rather to punish and silence. Much like these two douche canoes commenting on the Knoxville News Sentinel story. Their first reaction is to remove the platform – to shut up those who speak words they don’t like.

fired cantron

Because you can’t be wrong if you silence dissent.

 

 

 

Anti-Think

skullI’m too busy today to actually blog properly, so I will direct you to my buddy Lawrence.

Lawrence is a lot of fun. He makes the best ass jokes of anyone I know. He and I think very much alike, although he tends not to curse as much as I do. He makes up for it with fart stories, though, so it’s OK.

Anyway, Lawrence has written a piece I consider wonderfully thoughtful, considering the topic is what he accurately calls “anti-think.” Here’s an excerpt.

Anti-Think hijacks ordinary thought processes and twists them in the opposing direction. Let us say a good and proper French Feminist is walking home late at night and she suddenly realizes her course has taken her a little too close to an Islamic ghetto. Think would cause her to change course away from the potential danger. Not-Think would cause her to ignore the thought and proceed on her present course, heedless of the consequences. Anti-Think would whisper in her ear and tell her that her fear is bigotry. So to prove to herself and the world what a good Feminist she is, she intentionally steers into the ghetto. Then, if raped or mugged, she might act as one woman raped in Haiti did and blame white people for it.

Anti-Think convinces these people that the greatest threat to, say, women’s rights is white males living in the United States. While, of course, bastions of Islamic fundamentalism are excused, and even celebrated as ‘liberating’ for women. Because wearing a massive black bag in the middle of the scorching heat is what freedom looks like. Whatever a sensible conclusion is, the Anti-Thinker will reliably choose the opposite view. “It can’t be the fault of the person who raped me,” says the Anti-Thinker, “the patriarchal conspiracy in a completely different country made this man to attack me.”

Do yourselves a favor, and give the rest a read. Well worth it.

Uber Douche Wants New Type of Hero

Why is it that every time I want to stop writing on the lunacy of the SJWs, some lunatic forces me back into the half-baked cage of SJW psychosis?

Perhaps it’s because that sewer is an inexhaustible circle jerk of cultural Marxist jackoffery that will never run out of deviants. Or maybe I have friends who love to see my head explode at the stoopid.

Take this pearl-clutching schizo Damien Walter who writes about all things weird. He’s supposedly a writer of speculative fiction or something. He’s got one book on Amazon that I can find, with five reviews – 40 percent of them shitty. He’s also a favorite chew toy of one of my favorite authors – the International Lord of Hate himself Larry Correia – who accurately assessed a while back that somewhere in Britain a village is missing its idiot.

In other words, you know that whatever this uber douche vomits will likely be borderline retarded and somewhat ponderous. And guess what! He doesn’t disappoint – if by “disappoint” we mean dash our expectations that something incredibly stupid will come out of that stagnating, gelatinous mass of goo the Guardian newspaper thinks is a brain. It is, in fact, that stupid.

Walter spends the first couple of paragraphs in his latest screed in a wistful rumination about Conan the Barbarian’s pecs… or was it Arnold Schwarzenegger’s pecs? Regardless… you know he’s going to attempt to transform Conan into an irrelevant relic of white, male patriarchy, because he begins the essay with a nostalgic disclaimer about his latent desire to rape and pillage. He really LUUUUURVES Conan, but…

…the macho white male is only the fantasy ideal for a minority. As Lisa Cron argues in her excellent Wired For Story, the power of story reaches far further than mere entertainment. Our brain thinks in stories, but when stories don’t reflect our lived experience and our sense of identity, our brain will often reject them.

So there’s this thing. It’s called imagination. When a story is well written, the imagination lights up with ideas, with desires, with joy, with experiences that come alive from the reading! As Meg Rosoff observed – and was excoriated for – good literature expands your mind. It doesn’t have the “job” of being a mirror. But Damien Walter, as all good little howler monkey troops must, toes the SJW party line.

Now, I will admit, I haven’t read Ms. Cron’s book, but here’s a partial description from Amazon.

The vast majority of writing advice focuses on “writing well” as if it were the same as telling a great story. This is exactly where many aspiring writers fail–they strive for beautiful metaphors, authentic dialogue, and interesting characters, losing sight of the one thing that every engaging story must do: ignite the brain’s hardwired desire to learn what happens next. When writers tap into the evolutionary purpose of story and electrify our curiosity, it triggers a delicious dopamine rush that tells us to pay attention. Without it, even the most perfect prose won’t hold anyone’s interest.
     Backed by recent breakthroughs in neuroscience as well as examples from novels, screenplays, and short stories, Wired for Story offers a revolutionary look at story as the brain experiences it. Each chapter zeroes in on an aspect of the brain, its corresponding revelation about story, and the way to apply it to your storytelling right now.

I’ve also read a few reviews on the Internet and some quotes from the book itself. It sounds interesting, and it’s apparently based on heavy research in neuroscience and psychology. What I’m not seeing is confirmation of Damien’s claim that “when stories don’t reflect our lived experience and our sense of identity, our brain will often reject them.”

Cron seems to be discussing storytelling from an evolutionary perspective. “Recent breakthroughs in neuroscience reveal that our brain is hardwired to respond to story; the pleasure we derive from a tale well told is nature’s way of seducing us into paying attention to it.”

Tale. Well. Told.

Not a mirror. Not message fiction. Tale well gold.

Do we want to see more trans-women secretaries as the ones taking down the bad guys?

Do we want to see more trans-women secretaries… sorry… executive assistants taking down the bad guys?

Damien, of course, twists this concept into tossing the old muscle-bound hero stereotypes in favor of less traditional heroes, such as… well… you guessed it – minorities, women, bureaucrats, homosexuals, transgendered individuals, logistics officers, and others that aren’t generally portrayed as heroic. Because muscly, violent men are out, and dull, tax auditor-types are in (and it would be great if they were women and gay too!)

Hercules is out. Here comes Pajama Boy!

Forget Superman. Let’s see more HR specialists.

Red Sonja the tax auditor.

What?

No thanks.

Damien apparently compensates for his lack of testicular fortitude and barely hidden, slithering envy of strong, masculine archetypes by projecting his inability to relate to fun, masculine heroes onto others.

Seth Dickinson is one of a growing movement of fantasy authors re-engineering older stories for readers who don’t see themselves reflected in Conan, Frodo Baggins or Luke Skywalker. The Traitor Baru Cormorant begins with one of fantasy’s most famous tropes, the hero’s tribe are conquered by an oppressive empire, and he must take revenge. Or, as in the case of Ms Cormorant, she. And how will Baru Cormorant bring down the empire that murdered one of her two fathers? By learning to swing a sword? No! But by becoming a civil servant.

Translation: I’m bland and unimaginative, and I can’t relate to burly, powerful heroes. Solution? Make heroes bland and unimaginative, and invent fun things for them to do, like… you know… keep inventory, run budget meetings, coordinate on EEO policies, and all that. And if she fails at this task, the world as she knows it will end! I also note the worship of worthless bureaucracy that seems to be present in many progtard circles is oozing into what these tools consider literature.

There’s a clear logic to the conceit at the heart of Dickinson’s novel. Lone barbarians, however ripped, don’t defeat armies. But politicians and bureaucrats can wield the power to topple empires.

Except politicians and bureaucrats aren’t fun storytelling; they mostly sit around, tap their computer keys, and bloviate a lot. And while scheming is interesting, it’s the execution, the action, the actual toppling of empires that keeps us reading. Remember that good storytelling thing Lisa Cron talks about?

Baru Cormorant is a woman, from a conquered people, who discovers she is attracted to other women, trapped in an empire that kills her kind.

I’m shocked. Damien loves the abused lesbian victim.

Her only chance to survive is to learn the Masquerade of lies and deception that power the empire, and beat it at its own game. Dickinson’s novel arguably pursues the same strategy as its protagonist, imitating the genre it seeks to subvert, and perhaps one day, topple.

You know… learning to subvert the enemy is fine, but what are you going to do with it? That’s where that storytelling comes in. Learning is fine. Filling out logistics forms incorrectly, not so much.

I also love how Damien immediately projects his own desire to topple what he apparently can’t match in intellectual, and I’d be willing to bet, physical prowess, onto Seth Dickinson. Apparently writing a novel about a lesbian bureaucrat taking on the system = wanting to destroy other types of heroes. It’s either/or in Damien’s world. Seth Dickinson’s heroine apparently cannot coexist with the strong, masculine hero types out there! There’s only room in this world for one or the other. It’s so typical of the SJW mentality: if it doesn’t agree with you, destroy it!

Additionally, as you will see shortly, Damien’s reference to Cron’s ideas on storytelling is a ruse meant to provide his idiotic claims with a glossy veneer of legitimacy. He doesn’t give a flying rat’s fuck about quality and storytelling, and he admits it.

Dickinson’s re-engineering of the heroic fantasy genre is not entirely successful. The Traitor Baru Cormorant has neither the heart stirring adventure of a heroic fantasy, or the political depth of a Wolf Hall. But in a field where too many writers simply retell the same old stories, Dickinson’s originality and ambition are to be applauded, even when he doesn’t quite manage to meet the narrative engineering challenges he has set in himself.

Here you have it, boys and girls. There’s no heart. There’s no stirring adventure. There’s no political depth. But see… Dickinson is original, because he wrote a book about a lesbian in a world where gays are apparently killed (’cause that’s never been done before; see: Iran, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Sudan, etc.), so that makes it all good.

Walter then heaps drooling praise on authors such as Michael Moorcock, Kate Elliott, and NK Jemisin for being oh-so-progressive, as if progress is somehow limited to writing disadvantaged minorities one has unearthed from the proglodyte-approved the Victim-of-the-Month club.

The fantasy genre has always contained a progressive streak. From Angela Carter and Michael Moorcock to China Mieville and Kate Elliot, writers have re-engineered older narratives for audiences who don’t share the traditional values of Howard or Tolkien. But as the values of our society shift, those writers are creating the new mainstream of the genre. NK Jemisin’s Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, Ken Liu’s The Grace of Kings and Ilana C Myer’s Last Song Before Night, among many others, joy in re-engineering the traditional fantasy narrative to create new kinds of story.

Notice once again, there’s nothing here about good storytelling, which he spent some time telling us was oh-so-critical by citing Lisa Cron. The only thing that matters is the renunciation of traditional values and characters. Not the story.

The story is what sells the book. The story is what keeps our brain hanging on, according to the same author whose writing he twists to support his ridiculous theories. The story is what matters. It keeps us readers turning the pages. It keeps our imaginations engaged, our emotions burning, and our loyalties to the author whose work gives us such joy! It certainly doesn’t matter to us, the readers, whether the author has checked a gay/trans/black/purple/queer box on some imbecilic conformist checklist.

But to Damien… Oh no! HIS story can’t be allowed to stand!

“See, this is the thing about history. His story. That’s all it is. The Old Man’s version of events, which basically the rest of us are supposed to accept as the undisputed truth. Well, call me cynical, but I’ve never been one to take things on trust, and I happen to know that history is nothing but spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit or a myth, of course, is how that story is told, and by whom.”

Cynical? No, this festering yambag is not cynical. He’s filled with that trademark progtard arrogant self-loathing that he projects onto innocent authors, who don’t conform to his version of those deserving of literary success, of those worthy enough to be read with heart and soul! Because in his freakish vision of literature, the hero is not strong, exciting, attractive, or entertaining. It’s a cranky cockroach, sitting behind a computer, filling out forms, and creating bureaucratic hurdles for those who want to actually do something, sullenly plotting the destruction of those it sniffily thinks have dominated long enough – Walters’ own little euphemism for the evil, patriarchal literary world he seeks to destroy and infest with puny, tedious pseudo heroes, whose mediocrity is the “virtue” he seeks to promote.

Perhaps that’s why this sniveling dick weasel can’t seem to write a novel without financial support from the government.

The Cool Kids’ Table

I’ve never sat at it.

When I was a kid in the old USSR, there was nothing “cool” about me. I was kind of scrawny, shy, and I had that damn Jewish last name, so teachers and other students in Soviet schools shunned me as a Jew, ensuring I never got to engage in activities with the other kids. Yeah… I was that lonely kid you saw on a swing by herself in kindergarten while all the other kids were building huge forts and playing team games.

Yes, that's a Soviet birth certificate, and yes, that's the word

Yes, that’s my real Soviet birth certificate, and yes, that’s the word “Jew” I’ve circled. And yes, it followed you everywhere.

My last name in Russian sounds like the Russian word for “hockey puck,” so guess what my fellow students called me back then! They also beat me around quite a bit – much like a hockey puck. I was a Jew after all, so beating up on me became pretty much sport.

When I came to the United States, I was definitely not a cool kid. My parents didn’t have much money – well… really hardly any at all – so I would wear the same clothes every day, which didn’t endear me to my fellow students. They never bought sweets, or junk food, or sodas. I never got ice cream. We didn’t have money for such frivolities. I tasted cereal for the first time in my life when I was nine years old, and it seemed like an amazing treat at the time! What furniture we did have was procured from other people’s trash. So was our TV – a tiny little black and white thing that my dad fixed up, so he could watch the news and learn English. So kids from the neighborhood didn’t come visit. I had no friends. Add to that the fact that they thought I was Russian (despite the fact that I tried to convince them I was French) at the height of the Cold War made me not so popular.

When I was older, I went to summer camp. People weren’t mean to me, but I certainly was not one of the cool kids. I didn’t have many friends. I was generally left behind when my bunk mates got together to play games or go swimming. I spent a lot of time by myself, reading, writing letters to my parents, or walking through the wooded areas of the campground. I had learned sufficient English by then, but I was a bit introverted, and I preferred to spend time by myself.

I was never invited to cool kid parties in middle school – you know those parties where everyone plays “spin the bottle” and hooks up with members of the opposite sex. I did go to some, but I felt awkward and weird, and when I invited kids in my class to my own birthday party, one person showed up, and embarrassed, I never wanted another party.

I did find my voice, so to speak, in high school choir. I participated in concerts and plays. I loved the stage. But ultimately, we were choir and theater geeks, and my husband likes to remind me that I was the type of kid he would have beaten up in high school. I wasn’t a cheerleader. I didn’t play sports. I was a music geek, and I was expected to and did hang out with my own kind.

Frankly, I like it that way.

I don’t care about being popular, or cool, or well liked. I have never chosen the easy or popular path. That’s never interested me. So when time came for a decision about whether or not to support the Sad Puppies, it was easy, and the way the cliquish “cool kids” acted at this year’s Hugo Awards ceremony cemented that choice.

Larry Correia started the Sad Puppy campaign in hopes that the Hugo Awards would become a bigger, more inclusive tent that rewarded good storytelling regardless of politics, personal views, or religion. What culminated in the awards ceremony this year was snark, arrogance, downright cruelty, and slaps in the face to many deserving, well-regarded, talented authors and editors.

There were personal attacks – racist attacks, in fact against a kind, generous, talented man. There were false accusations of racism against some of the kindest, most generous people I know by people who are their peers. Arrogant racists, who claim moral superiority, because they feel entitled to abuse anyone who is white or male and has the temerity to not feel guilty about it, see it fit to impugn the intelligence and soul of one of the brightest, kindest women I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.

This is, of course, the same Cuntasaurus Rex who issued a racist reading challenge to all its drooling, frothing acolytes to stop reading anything written by straight, white, cis male authors for one year. The same wackjob SJW who, by her own admission, couldn’t get through anything written by those evil white oppressors, and would get all ragey and quit reading, because PRIVILEGE! Or something…  has the temerity to impugn the Mensa-level intelligence of Sarah Hoyt – a successful, Latina female author, whose talent and wit Tempest, who admits to have mooched off her rich friends for a while after leaving her oh-so-privileged New York existence, couldn’t even begin to match!

But hey… Tempest is one of the cool kids, right?

Yeah, if that daft bint is at the cool kids table, pardon me while I eat with the nerds!

No, the Sad Puppies will never be at the cool kids table. They will always be the nerds – old fashioned, dedicated to actual talent, strength of writing, storytelling, and love of the craft. They will never be the progtards who worry more about the color of the author’s skin, the political leanings of the writer, the pronoun he or she (YES, I’M USING THE BINARY, YOU MICROAGGRESSED ASSHOLES! DEAL WITH IT) prefers, or the sexual orientation the author happens to be. The Sad Puppies will always choose talent and hard work over pronouns, race, and gender. And that makes them not cool in the eyes of the establishment science fiction and fantasy community.

Not cool. Not progressive. And therefore, intentionally left out in the cold – just like that five-year-old Jewish kid on the swing, sitting alone while all the others built forts.

Well, that’s OK. These are the people I prefer to associate with anyway. Because I love literature. Because I love art. Because I love integrity and honesty. Because I admire talent, intelligence, and dedication to one’s art. And because I think that’s what the Hugo Awards should be about – innovation, imagination, and ingenuity. And I’ll take those a thousand times over the racism of K. Tempest Bradford, the ignorance of Arthur Chu, the disdainful conceit of David Gerrold, the disingenuousness of George R.R. Martin, and the stubborn, arrogant, defamatory libel of Mary Robinette Kowal.

They can have the cool kids’ table. I’m proud to stand with the Sad Puppies. Again.

What Your Reaction to My NRA Sticker Says About You

OK, so I don’t have an NRA sticker. Although I’m an ardent gun rights advocate, I am not an NRA member. The NRA and I never really got along all that well. But nonetheless, bear with me here, because I’m about to explain why the NRA sticker says much more about the metrosexual douche pickle who wrote this column than it does about anyone who has that sticker on their vehicle.

I see that NRA decal on the rear window of your car and my eyes narrow. I look at the back of your head in the driver’s seat and I wonder if you are a threat.

A threat to my children. A threat to me. A threat to society.

I see you quivering in your panties about a sticker, and I snicker just a bit. I look at you and I wonder if you ever had any courage, any integrity, and any understanding of the laws and principles on which this nation was founded. And I wonder if you’re a threat.

A threat to my freedoms. A threat to my way of life. A threat to the Constitution.

I see a news report about the latest shooting deaths in the United States. I brace myself for the NRA talking points on social media.

I see a news report about the latest shooting deaths in the United States. I brace myself for screeching politicians and panty shitters like you spreading the “common sense gun control” mantra without an understanding of what that means or the possible unintended consequences of its implementation.

I try not to read them. I fail at that. I am appalled and saddened and sickened and angry.

I always read them, because I need to ensure that I am able and willing to protect my life and the lives of my loved ones against unimaginable evil. I need to remind myself that it exists.

I am reminded why I consider you a potential threat.

I am reminded of why I consider you a sad, pathetic little coward.

To me, that NRA decal on the rear window of your car represents violent death.

To me, your reaction to that NRA decal on the rear window of my car represents gutlessness.

By displaying that NRA decal on the rear window of your car, you are endorsing violent death.

By cringing at that NRA decal, you are endorsing an abdication of your rights and responsibilities as a citizen and as a human being.

By endorsing violent death, you show me that you do not care about the tens of thousands of gun deaths in the United States every year.

By shirking your responsibility to protect yourself and your loved ones you show me that you don’t care how many crimes are stopped and how many lives are potentially saved with the responsible use of firearms.

You don’t care about the gun deaths at Columbine. You don’t care about the gun deaths at Virginia Tech. You don’t care about the gun deaths at Tucson. You don’t care about the gun deaths at Aurora. You don’t care about the gun death at a movie theater up the road from here in Wesley Chapel. You don’t care about the gun deaths at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown. You don’t care about the gun deaths at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston.

You don’t care about the gun deaths this morning at Bridgewater Plaza in Virginia.

You don’t care about the lives Jeanne Assam saved by shooting an armed madman at the New Life Church in Colorado Springs. You don’t care about the toddler who was saved by mom’s dispatching of an intruder breaking into her home. You don’t care about the 9-year-old twins whose lives were saved by their mother using a revolver. You don’t care about the countless lives of students that Joel Myrick saved by retrieving a gun from his car and stopping Luke Woodham at Pearl High School. You don’t care about the lives of the congregants at the Boiling Springs’ South Side Freewill Baptist Church that were saved by one man taking responsibility for the lives of others. You don’t care about the lives of innocent shoppers at Clackamas Mall that were saved after an armed citizen confronted a gunman. You don’t care about the construction workers whose lives were saved because one armed foreman stopped a disgruntled employee. You certainly don’t care about hospital workers, doctors, nurses, and patients whose lives were saved by one armed doctor after a mental patient marched in and started shooting. And we know you don’t give a rancid rat’s ass about the twins whose lives were saved by their teenage brother after intruders broke into their home.

That is what the NRA decal displayed in the rear window of your car tells me.

Is that fair?

Nope. It’s also not rational, but we don’t expect fairness, justice, and logic from quivering self-soilers who infer all this nonsense from a simple window sticker.

Is it just of me to conclude that you don’t care about the loss of human life because of the proliferation of guns in the U.S., simply because you choose to display an NRA decal in the rear window of your car?

Maybe not. Yet, how am I to know that you are not the next “good guy with a gun” to snap?

Here’s a clue, dimwit: The vast majority of NRA members are law-abiding citizens. But more than that, how do you know? You don’t. I don’t either. And while crimes of passion are relatively rare, since I don’t know, I’d rather be able to at least try to defend myself with an effective tool than cower, soil myself in fear, and hope the bad guy goes away. I’d rather have a fighting chance. But then again, I’m a responsible adult, not a sniveling coward.

How am I to know that something about the way I drive, or something about the way your day or life is going, or something imagined by you and unimaginable to me triggers the compulsion to shoot, and to kill?

If you really believe that you might be a trigger for someone’s violent road rage, wouldn’t you rather be able to defend yourself and potentially save your own life and those of your kids? Oh, wait… I forgot… Your mangina forbids such acts of masculine courage.

Because of that NRA decal in the rear window of your car, because I am the father of two beautiful boys who are growing up with a backdrop of rampant gun violence, the only responsible conclusion for me to draw is that you are armed – and dangerous. That you are a threat. That you could, if you chose, pull out your gun and shoot me or my children without a thought or even provocation.

Because of your whimpering reaction to my NRA decal, and because I’m the mother of two beautiful, responsible children, one of whom is a U.S. Marine, while the other is an ROTC student at UNC Charlotte, and both of whom were able to responsibly use firearms under adult supervision, and later on their own, since they were tiny tots, the only logical conclusion for me to draw is that you are a coward, who is an easy victim for armed thugs, who doesn’t care enough about the lives of those beautiful boys to take steps to responsibly defend them.

Maybe that is not fair. Maybe you are a gentle, kind person who happens to enjoy shooting sports.

Maybe you are an ignorant and have no comprehension of what the Second Amendment is about.

Here is a fair conclusion, though: You care more about your “right” to own a gun than you care about my right to live without the fear that members of my family or my friends might be shot and killed at school, at the movies, in our car, on the job, in church … anywhere. Anywhere at all.

Here’s a fair conclusion, though: Your inclusion of the word “right” in quotation marks shows you have no concept of what a right actually is. You are incapable of comprehending that your “right” to live without fear does not obligate me or anyone else to stroke your pusillanimous fantasies and make you feel all comfy and cozy. You care about your imagined “right” to impose your cowardice and ignorance on millions of innocent people who happen to be gun owners. You are a selfish prick.

It is more important to you that the 300 million guns in the United States remain in the hands of their owners than it is for my children to grow up in a country where violent gun deaths are an anomaly, rather than the norm.

It’s more important to you to impose your arbitrary, subjective standards of “security” on others than recognize that others should have the ability to protect themselves without whining invertebrates such as you forcing them to conform to your gutless wankery.

You would rather risk more lives, thousands more, than take responsible action on gun control. In your world, there is an “acceptable” number of violent gun deaths.

You would rather see your fellow citizens defenseless at the nonexistent mercy of armed thugs than put on your big boy pants, man up, and support all law-abiding citizens’ right to defend themselves with the most effective tool on the market today.

I conclude that about you, because you choose to display that NRA decal in the rear window of your car.

I conclude that you’re a heartless, senseless, hysterical, walking mangina because you view your fellow Americans as threats merely by looking at a decal on their car window.

How does it feel to know that the father, the husband, the son, the friend, the writer in the car behind you is afraid of what you might do because of that NRA decal displayed in the rear window of your car?

It makes me feel sad for the state of our society that sniveling pussies like you exist, that you will likely raise your sons to be just as gutless and sad as you are, and that some poor woman chose to reproduce with you in the first place.

How does that feel to you?

Actually … never mind.

I don’t think I want to know.

You wrote that senseless dreck, so now you know.

Note: Apparently this sad little excuse for a gonad didn’t like the response he received from his fellow Americans, whom he frames as potential threats for absolutely no reason, so he shut the comments down for his blog. It’s typical. He apparently couldn’t respond in a mature, rational way, so rather than put in the effort, he simply decided to shut down others’ ability to respond to his drivel. Much like his response to an NRA label in someone’s window, this makes him a coward.

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