The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten

People Who Criticize “Social Justice Warriors” Are Mindless Hypocrites

1st, the phrase is redundant. All justice is social. Justice is nothing mo’ than comparing how 1 person is treated to ‘nother & seeing that they’re equal. E’en if one believes in meritorious justice rather than equalitarian, one believes that greater rewards are balanced by greater liability in the form o’ greater effort. Balance ‘tween people is an inherent part o’ justice; that’s why justice is represented by scales. A scale by itself has no relation to justice ’cause a person cannot injustice oneself, ’cause people have control o’er themselves; it’s only how people treat others wherein justice becomes an issue.

Anyway, the people who criticize “SJWs” always try to present themselves as cool nihilists who care only ’bout humor, only to get just as bitchy when their own petty issues are stomped on. Thus we see rich ditzes whine ’bout how they shouldn’t have to care ’bout boring oppression gainst minorities, but then ne’er shut the fuck up ’bout the pettier suppression o’ their ability to waste every airspace with their insipid bullshit. Their logic is clear: I shouldn’t have to care ’bout anyone else, but everyone else should care ’bout me. Utter inconsistency. If such so-called nihilists don’t care ’bout injustice, then they must be consistent & accept injustice gainst themselves.

Thus we have the stupidity o’ GamerGate, a movement dedicated to making money whining ’bout some random women making money whining ’bout sexism in gaming, all for their noble fight gainst people who soil media ’bout 1st-world playthings by nobly fighting gainst things. It’s the same “centrist” shlock that infects regular political media: they criticize anything they disagree with as “biased,” since they have no actually rational arguments gainst it, ignoring that to define a certain viewpoint as “biased,” & a different (theirs) as “the middle” is to be biased ’bout what is the “middle.”

Economists do the same: they define heathens who dare to have independent thought on the proper distribution o’ wealth from their invisible hand god as “social justice” folk, as opposed to level-headed economists who then bitch & moan ’bout their imaginary model economies being tampered with or the injustice rich people go through by being “stolen” from (that this definition o’ “theft” & “true ownership” is just as arbitrary, & ultimately backed by government law, is ignored, ‘course, since economists replace authentic analysis with ideological regurgitation). ‘Gain, if economists want to be cool, emotionless scientists, then they have to be accepting o’ all “injustice.” People who sneer @ those who whine ’bout the innumerably corrupt & unjust actions o’ the rich & corporations, but then get in a hissy fit when workers form unions, regulate, or redistribute wealth are simply bumbling hypocrites who should be laughed @ themselves.

‘Course, the greatest paradox is that anyone who rails gainst “social justice warriors,” by railing so fiercely, is already a social justice warrior. The only difference is that they’re just shittier versions. So if I have to choose ‘tween supporting social justice warriors, I’d rather support those who fight for social issues that actually matter rather than petty garbage that has to twist words round to hide the fact that it’s petty garbage. It’s just like “political correctness” or “intellectualist”: it’s a way for people with rationally useless philosophical views to attack rationally useful views not by actually deconstructing them logically, but, ironically, by sarcastically calling them rational. “O, so you’re the ‘warriors’ who put effort into making society fair—i.e. logically consistent. Phhh, why don’t you go back to your college for smart people, smarty sweats.” It’s like the passive-aggressive people who call themselves “conservatives” & say, “O, well I guess I’m dumb then,” whenever “liberals”—people who are bad ’cause they disagree with their views, thus creating a self-fulfilling ideology—are mean ‘nough to point out how illogical—i.e. dumb—their views are. & nothing’s mo’ unjust in this world than people with dumb views having their dumb views called dumb.

& if they do support justice, but just don’t think that feminists, or whatever group they hate, supports is justice, then they shouldn’t use the term “social justice warrior.” So either way, they’re stupid. ¿If they truly think their definition for justice is better, why don’t they ‘splain it ‘stead o’ relying on meaningless epithets as useful as “poopy-head”?

& for the record, I’m not a “Social Justice Warrior”: I’m a Social Justice Black Wizard, ’cause I chose Black Mage (way to be reverse-racist in giving the black mages the badass offensive magic, Square) & totally gave Bahamut his rat tail.

Posted in Politics

PERMITE QUE EL SOL NO TE CIEGUE LOS OJOS PERMITEME DORMIR PARA QUE NO RECHINEN LOS DIENTES

I’m wrong.

All wrong.

--& I’ve been wrong since the beginning o’ the bomb.

«¡Ack! ¡You’re wrong!

¡Stop being so perverse & admit that everyone’s a lemon wedge on the edge o’ tea!»

But they’re wrong,

& that’s what makes them right,

for the wrongest wrong one can wreak is being right.

Look @ these black leaves strewn ‘cross

pavements oiled in acid rain,

oozing cheap mascaras cross

pimpled skid-mark-darkened f--

«¡Now stop! This imagery is too extreme;

O’ it we’re getting quite so sick. ¿Why don’t

You write ‘bout nice li’l things? Like angel cream

With golden smiles & smokeless, vacuumed ho--»

¡Wrong!

¡Wrong!

¡Wrong!

¡Wrong!

It’s too late to save my brain;

better the sweater is thrown ‘way

than sentenced to life in barnacles from the rain,

no matter how the mold bakes heat aches...

Now, ¿who wants heart aches?

¡Una trampa!

You won’t miss the dead leaves

when you’ve got white cream;

don’t rage @ the dying o’ the midnight,

¿all right?

But when I wished myselves goodlight,

muttering, «You’re right, you’re right...»,

sweaty-eyed, I realized

that they stabbed me with my own knife.

¡The supes in suits strike ‘gain!

¿Why?

¿Why?

¿Why?

Posted in Crazy, Poetry

Patchy Sonnet

Crumple all my papers under

bellies hungry for a scratch;

feel & hear your dormant thunder

while you ready paws to snatch

jackets trying to pass by.

But I know you always flee

from the wall-clung fly-fast lights,

even though just made by CDs.

Playing poker, you beat me;

now I need to pay the fee:

scratch your chin eternally.

Posted in Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry

The Bearded Man – An Excerpt from The Economicon

Rain scattered o’er his face & chin & eyeballs. The sky was bluer than blue chairs. He was hungry. He was skeleton thin. His joints were somehow both sore from sleeping on the drywall & numb from the ice box in his heart. His fingers were crawling with hangnails.

‘Twas while trudging through the sky’s slices o’ swamp in his broke jeans full o’ pulled springs that he met the bearded man. The bearded man wore a rich robe o’ blood red & held a scarlet scepter whose star-&-sickle head twinkled in the moonlight. So did the bearded man’s eyes.

The bearded man held his hands out & said in a soft, slightly whispery voice, “I know what you need…”

“No…”

“Shhh. It’ll all be OK. Come with me. Our kind shall rule destiny.”

Our hero’s knees stumbled & fell. Our hero was now in the bearded man’s stomach.

Posted in ¿What the Fuck Is this Shit?

MIENTRAS ESPERAS SENTANDO Y SIENTES MALO POR TI MISMO PORQUE SABES DONDE SERÉ ENCONTRADO

¡Por ahí! ¡Mira!

¿Ves aquello espacio de estacionamiento

que tiene las grietas y los bultos en la corteza?

Es…

No, viento, no puedes tomar este poema.

Malo, ¿cuándo estaba yo?

Por supuesto:

soy eso espacio agrietado yo.

Ahora, ¿Ves aquello espacio con la boca erótica de tormenta?

No soy eso.

No seré eso nunca.

No.

♪ …así arrugamos… ♫

¡There! ¡Look!

¿See that parking space—

the 1 with the cracks & the bumps in its crust?

That’s—

No, wind, you can’t have this poem.

Anywhere, ¿when was I?

O yeah:

that cracked lot is me.

Now, ¿see that parking lot with the swanky storm drain?

That ain’t me.

That’ll ne’er be me.

♪ …so we creeeeeeease… ♫

Posted in Española, Poetry

& Then It Leaves Me (HOJAS MUERTAS EN EL SUELO SUCIO CUANDO YO SEPA QUE NO ESTÁS AQUÍ)

To all the

chewy chocolate that’s

‘tween my teeth,

to the tears

o’ stormy clouds both

sour & sweet,

to early

evenings’ smeared lemon

restless lights,

to bus wheels’

jingling thunder-struck

keys on kites,

to flapping

jackets that make the

cool winds warm,

to clapping

firs both ecstatic

& forlorn,

to the tea

& coffee scorching

cherry leaves,

to the bats

that flap their purple

tapestries,

to night planes

giving me a wink

as they pass,

to sluggish

November lunchtime’s

foggy mask,

to the wood

spiders chillin’ on

the drywall,

to skylarks

shrinking into blues

without calls,

to pop-up

ghosts drenched darkly with

neon green,

to buttered

toast drenched starkly in

strawberries,

to the gift

that mixes the moon

& the sun,

to the warm

opposites present

within the

light that’s only bright surrounded

by so many crevices so

dark. Don’t not be gloomy: fountains

freeze next year still always missed, though,

still when I watch shadow pines

brushing far away I find

like I almost like to pine

death’s demise

shaped like fallen maple twigs.

Autumn’s cut so thin.

Hope I get to ‘gain begin…

Posted in Haiku, Senryu y amigos, Metered, Mezunian Sonnet, Poetry

Sorrow Ugly (SOLO TIRA TU VIEJA VIDA Y SÉ CRIADO POR MURCIÉLAGOS)

Blue in red hell,

not where the roses rot,

but where the rotten roses sniff unsmelled.

The heart’s not warm, but caged in cold,

told the warmth-made water would only feed mold.

Cleanse the black rock o’ fuzzy green monsters.

¿Why e’en bother with those who don’t e’en bother?

¿Find these fish fit O so snugly

in the sunset-drenched canyons o’ Sorrow Ugly?

Show you on the newsprint where the ink smudges—

I just fudge it,

’cause this isn’t it the grudge pit?

With femurs & hamshells,

where the woods sip lakes from the moonlit elk.

That’s such a flimsy pelt.

That’s such a flismy fingernails.

Catch the yolks in all the rain pails.

Find me where the bent cardboard boxes hug me

in the charred forest corpse copse called Sorrow Ugly.

¡Night!

strikes so early;

but its early strikes are stricken so early,

trampling the trampled grass in a hurry.

¿Whither to wither unseen?

Come with me

to the moondown that is Sorrow Ugly.

Coming this fall

that fells us all.

Posted in Poetry

Demon Dog Howl (QUEMANDO AHORA TE TRAIGO EL INFIERNO)

I heard it,

& we’re the worse f’it.

I try to prop it all on my scarlet dictionary,

when the spiral binding should’ve sufficed.

You just can’t fuck with the fluoride fairy.

If you try to, you just might

grow a rosy boil that always feels greasy

—perfection’s perfect foil.

Easy, toy…

& yet I’d ne’er sown my reply;

¿Why,? when aware my awareness is boozed

to arctic hell, where the only thing clean

be the breakfast bell.

Well, we’ll well well in the well-welded well o’ wills

till we realize we ne’er realized

why we faced the inferno

o’ the 1st place.

They will still burn, though.

Posted in Poetry