Oh wow, it’s bspencer riffing on some truly bizarre articles she found via alicublog. How unusual. How unlike her. I know. I know. But, my god, I could not not let these pass without commenting. At the very least, I could not experience them without making you experience them too. Yes, that’s right–I’m hate-linking now. If I must suffer, so, too, must you.
First there’s this fun little butt-nugget from David French. Here he goes from “liberal men are unhappy” to “liberal men are unhappy because feminism and political correctness run amok.” He does not pass “Go.” He does not collect $200. Hell, he doesn’t even collect any facts or citations to back up his little thesis. But I reckon you don’t need facts when anything you’re wildly grabbing everything that’s currently residing in your ass.
Anyway, I just wanna say to all the liberal men of the world that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being such a ball-twisting harpy who doesn’t let you get away with being a bigot or misogynist. I’m know it’s people like me who make you unhappy, not that fact that you share the world with David French. I’M. SORRY.
Next up, we have a real tour de force from Victor Davis Hanson. It’s all about the sense of freedom one feels when one is doing back-breaking and sometimes dangerous work while not making as much money as Victor Davis Hanson. I give him credit for keeping it slightly less rambling and nonsensical than usual, while still managing to sneak in some vintage VDH-flavored surrealism. Go ahead, click. You will not be disappointed.
Aside from the idea of glimpsing rare species in their natural habitat, a second theory suggests that viewers are smugly satisfied that they are not like these uncouth white boys, who are certainly worse spoken, more emotional, less mature, and more intolerant than the viewership.
They usually script a clueless laborer forgetting to gas up the drilling rig and then wondering why it won’t start – the producers’ use of a sort of postmodern white version of Stepin Fetchit. Sometimes a foolish driver takes his tracked vehicle over a ridge — only to be surprised when it tips over. Things seem to smoke, blow up, and go kaboom a lot, as the good ol’ boys apply baling wire to broken, but once sophisticated, store-bought machines. These white boys also seem perennially broke — just one good gold vein, a bunch of crab legs, or a good batch of moonshine away from at last dealing with their joyless, bottom-line-watching creditors.
The viewer assumes that such unsophisticated folk are not padding their 401(k)s in anticipation of the time when their arthritic joints, bad backs, or incipient diabetes makes sawing or driving too excruciating. No accountant seems to be around to remind them to depreciate the tractor or write off the doctor’s bill for the bad leg. They eat poorly, often smoke, and will not end up at 65 like the viewer who long ago got his cholesterol below 200 and avoids trans fats. Apparently, these strange shows offer viewers the reassurance not just that they are looking better, feeling healthier, and enjoying more security than those on screen, but also that the latter brought their problems on themselves. The ice truckers probably do not go in for their periodic colonoscopies.
Indeed, someone does seem to be smugly enjoying the plight of these working joes…but I don’t think it’s liberals.
I saved the best for last:
So good-ol’-boy reality offers glimpses, premodern though they may be, of unrestrained freedom. In our upside-down world, the eighth-grade teacher understands that one wrong word, an ill-timed joke, a casual pat on the shoulder can end a career, pronto — while his punk student with the gang-banging parent who shouts profanity at him are mostly exempt from worry. The boss at the DMV accepts the fact that the whiff of a sexual-harassment suit, the rumor of an impending racial-discrimination allegation, the suggestion of inhospitality to the handicapped are more terrifying than the rowdy 16-year-old who pulls in to take his driving test in a monster truck. In our dreams it is better to be an ax man, where it’s Mother Nature, not the local diversity czar, who is after you.
I’m sorry. That was mean.