by Christopher Gage
The boycott was once preserved for the most diabolical of political regimes. In decades of old, activists with an actual enemy to slay used the boycott to hasten the demise of the inhumane apartheid regime of South Africa.
Remarkably, those activists made history without Twitter or a single self-titillating hashtag.
This week, in clownish post-serious once-Great Britain, a family-owned sausage company flickered under the impotent flame of Twitter’s brightest sparks.
Boris Johnson’s folksy campaign visit to Heck Foods involved the likely next prime minister making and packing sausages. The point perhaps being to show that the man charged with finally dragging us from the European Union is listening to the people such a momentous decision most greatly would affect.
Of course, the sight of Boris performing probably the most innocuous of exercises shook the patrons of Twitter into a wholly predictable fit of fashionable rage.
One devotee of that digital asylum claimed they’d never eat Heck sausages again, and “hoped” (ever the emotion) that all “fair-minded” people would follow suit.
Radical conformists parroted the silly sentiment. All, unsurprisingly, having adorned their Twitter bios with demented and bunny-boiled declarations of love for the European Union that Boris is determined to leave.
To think that a cylinder of minced meat encased in a collagen skin so disturbs those convinced of their intellectual superiority, is more delicious a thought than the humble sausage itself. And from people who’ve probably never bought a Heck sausage.
For three years now, we who voted to leave the European Union have been branded with the “thick” stick. Our betters, you see, are still fighting the war of 2016. Like those Japanese soldiers, shambling around the jungle, decades after the war’s end.
They implore, with adolescent emotion, of a Britain only they recognize. And one they need to exist.
The Brexit vote, according to those on Twitter, unleashed the darkest forces, and mainstreamed fascism. White supremacy reigns. Or something.
Which is strange take. A report this week found that Chinese and Indian workers earn far more than native white Britons. A notion perhaps absurd in an apparently racist wonderland. Maybe, their famed industry, and ascetic commitment to education is the difference.
Couple that with the fact that white working-class British boys attain by some margin the lowest education of all groups. Or, in America, that Nigerian-Americans are quietly becoming the most successful ethnic group.
But facts matter little to the modern progressive. Another who prefers a terrorized reality is Megan Rapinoe. The women’s soccer world cup winner this week repeated her refusal to visit the White House. That was despite no invite being on the table.
Rapinoe sounded like the jilted lover propping up the end of the bar. In his poisoned state, he talks of nothing but his former love, capping that drowsy lament with: but, I don’t care about her, anyway.
Winning the highest prize in her sport was not sufficient for Rapinoe.
In a statement striking only for its dull suffocation of original thought, Rapinoe, herself involved in a same-sex relationship, seared the first president openly to be accepting of same-sex marriage.
“Your message is excluding people,” Rapinoe said. “You’re excluding me, you’re excluding people that look like me, you’re excluding people of color, you’re excluding Americans that maybe support you.”
The monologue is typical of the attention-saturated progressive. Doubtless, its author is unduly convinced of its copy-and-paste profundity—a sad phenomenon latent in those “educated” with fifth-place medals for their unbending brilliance.
That brilliance convinced both Remainers and the anti-Trump “Resistance” of the coming post-democratic hellscapes that will abound if the oiks voted against their interests.
Inconveniently, Britain lacks the plagues of locusts. And President Trump seems content with putting Americans to work, and smoothing the excesses of the GOP’s Gordon Gekko wing.
Perhaps, this pathological adolescence serves a purpose. Progressives, after all, cannot afford progress. They love Trump’s “hate.” Oppression is a luxury item among history’s most privileged.
It’s just like The Handmaid’s Tale . . . or something. When, in reality, Trump’s America is as tolerant and open as the America before it.
And that is a notion which progressives cannot abide. Without confected enemies, their schtick renders itself meaningless. Both race and gender relations have irreversibly advanced since the 1960s. The only people who don’t want us to know that tend to call themselves progressive.
Boycott culture and grievance-farming is all they have left. A means to enforce the authoritarian whims of the Woke upon those peccable souls who refuse its election.
Indeed, there is one boycott worthy of a mention and, if adhered to would permanently enrich the human condition—the boycott of Twitter.
Imagine, if you will, a world in which sausages are free to adorn the necks of whomever they choose, regardless of that person’s political views. A world in which all sausages could freely associate with whomever they liked. And be eaten by whomever they liked. Without the threat of boycott by the spoilers of all that is meaty and pure—those “progressives” on Twitter.
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