GitM 2: Revenge of the Dickweeds
Why do I feel like the only one who is truly concerned about the dickweed epidemic?
The latest statistics from Flegal et al. suggest that if trends continue in this direction, this nation will face a tsunami of assholes by 2050.
I hereby call on the FLOTUS to take immediate action to halt this preventable public health disaster.
But until she launches “Let’s Grow the Fuck Up,” I guess I’ll just have to do my part to deal with the scourge of dickweedity and its inevitable result, the dreaded morbid dickweedity.
Always on the cutting edge of social issues, the Huffington Post once again leads the way by providing endless examples of the ravages that plague dickweeds. As we all know, dickweeds have a severely impaired frontal lobe, which is primarily responsible for preventing that snarky little shit inside all of us doesn’t spend every waking hour pursuing the misery of others.
I’m not linking to any examples because all you have to do is visit any story on Gabby Sidibe.
(Handy tip: if you accidentally ingest poison, simply read as much of the Gabby comment threads as possible to induce vomiting… the current record is three pages.)
So, today’s Muddy Monday is intended to teach us how to deal with this most unfortunate condition. And, since there’s no way to get a dickweed to comprehend anything beyond his or her stunted understanding, we must accept their logic in order to refute them.
In the case of a dickweed’s opinion on fatties, the typical defense that Little Lord Fauntleroy will give is that since fatties are responsible for being fatties (since all fatties are gluttonous slobs), then they deserve to be ridiculed.
With dim conscience appeased, the dickweed spews a torrent of monosyllabic jibes from middle school memories. And it’s easy enough to ignore most of the time, but you wish you could knock some sense into the dickweed.
Were I charged with rehabilitating a dickweed, I would tell them a little story.
It’s about a 21-year-old guy with a 1-year-old child. This guy (let’s call him Bob) still likes to party, likes to drink. He does what every other 21-year-old without a child does. He doesn’t have full custody, so when she’s not there he can do what he wants. And what he wants to do is drink.
Well, one night, Bob goes to a party and gets drunk. He gets in his car completely unfit to drive and he speeds shitfaced into the night and into a tree.
I met Bob 21 years after that life-altering moment.
I worked for a company that provided support services for mentally retarded/developmentally disabled (MRDD) adults. Mostly, they provided in-home support in one of two ways: either providing a staff person present 24-hours-a-day or providing part-time support for higher functioning clients.
All of our clients who were capable of working did so. They either found competitive employment (Taco Bell, Walmart, etc.) or they went to a sheltered workshop. Those who worked at sheltered workshops assembled a variety of products, but they got paid a pittance (which I didn’t get at all… something like $4 an hour).
Well, our organization provided a third employment option for clients who weren’t capable of competitive employment, but were unsatisfied by sheltered workshops. Basically, we helped them run their own businesses.
For example, one of the ladies I worked with during my time there had a recycling business. I’d drive her around in this station wagon her parents bought her and we’d pick up cans from these businesses that had agreed to let us put a recycling can in their office. Then on Fridays we’d run to the recycling center and cash in a station wagon full of aluminum cans. Then we’d deposit the money in the bank and we’d go back to the office, balance the books, and cut her a paycheck.
(Incidentally, I’m not naming the company for obvious reasons, but I will refer to this program as the Helping Hands program so I don’t have to keep being vague.)
When I started at Helping Hands, Bob was my first client. He was new at Helping Hands too. Bob was paralyzed from the waist down, but he suffered traumatic brain injury and his motor skills were constricted and jerky. He couldn’t speak either.
He could, however, operate his electric wheelchair. He could also operate a speaking board (I don’t remember what they’re really called). The speaking board had a regular keyboard on it, plus several shortcut buttons for common words, like “drink” or “sleepy” or “bathroom.”
Most of the time, though, he typed what he wanted to say and a robotic voice would read it when he was done.
My job was to help Bob figure out what kind of company he wanted to start and to help him start it.
I remember asking him what he wanted to do and he typed, “Greeting cards.”
And that’s what we did. We created greeting cards and planned on visiting various shops and see if we could set up a display.
I only worked with Bob for three or four months when I was transferred to the Recycle Wagon, so we never got into distribution. But we had a pretty good time coming up with some highly inappropriate greeting cards (I was often surprised by how filthy the minds of some MRDD people can be).
Bob’s life was destroyed by his own reckless behavior. Who knows how many times Bob tempted fate by drinking excessively or drinking and driving, let alone what sort of things he did when he had a baby to care for.
The fact that Bob was a parent made him responsible for more than just the consequences that his actions would have on himself. As a parent, Bob’s choices would permanently alter his and his daughter’s lives.
Now, dickweeds, point and laugh.
After all, he brought it on himself.
You should ridicule him and all those like him in your vain attempt to modify their behavior.
I suspect you’ll find it nearly as effective as your efforts to impact the fatties.
Even assuming that all fatties have complete control over our bodies, yet refuse to exert it, you seem to think that we have some sort of monopoly on reckless behavior. Even if I eat a bucket of spaghetti for breakfast every morning, how is that any worse than the gambler that pisses away his children’s college fund or the driver chatting manically on her cell phone or the man who cheats on his wife and passes on the herpes.
Which of these lives is worthy of your contempt and scorn?
Being a dickweed, you’ve probably answered, “All of them.”
However, with the exception of the fatties, you aren’t able to identify who is guilty of what (short of catching them in the act, as you may be able to do with the cell phone drive (though it may be tricky to degrade them from the comfort of your ’72 Gremlin)). So, fatties provide you the ideal opportunity to showboat your self-righteous indignation toward a presumed set of behaviors.
This is how stereotypes work… some readily identified characteristic (race, color, physique, masculinity/femininity, and on and on and on) is perceived to be undesirable. A character trait becomes associated with the physical trait and, rather than simply express your contempt for the physical trait, a dickweed professes contempt for the socially unacceptable character trait.
That character trait is seen as the fault of its bearer, therefore the dickweed’s contempt is justifiable and not simply small-minded bigotry. So, a dickweed can disparage black people, whose inferiority is manifest in poverty (due to laziness), stupidity (due to lack of motivation in school), and crime (due to lack of morals).
Nevermind that all three issues (poverty, education and crime) are symptoms of the continued de facto racial segregation (and the stark economic disparities that exist between traditionally white and black neighborhoods).
Just try to engage a dickweed on the subject of unequal access to quality education in impoverished areas and you’ll find them unwilling to accept or even entertain the idea that the typical tax structure enables this ever-widening gap. No, it’s much too easy to simply place the burden of responsibility on the object of derision, thus making them fair game.
Well, under these rules, Bob is fair game. But I seriously doubt that any dickweeds would have the balls to laugh at a paralyzed, brain damaged man in a wheelchair, even though it was through his own irresponsibility, his own poor choices, that he earned that terrible fate for him and his daughter.