Have you heard the awful news? I pray (and hope) you have not. I am referring, of course, to the plight of the Hawaiian yellow-faced bee. Such bees are dwindling. Endangered. Droning toward extinction. Soon, these winged creatures could expunge from the earth.
It will be your fault, by the way, if the yellow-faced bee is no more. Forced from this life because of you and your mistreatment of the planet. And your lurid predilection for plastic straws. Or something equally grotesque.
But, fear not. If you have yet to learn of this chichi bee, there are hundreds of other obscurities to discover. You could cultivate a longstanding compassion for the dumbo octopus. That is not endangered, but you can always pretend so.
Yes, one Google search can supply you with a tear-welling sympathy for a terrible plight that only dawned upon you seven words previous. You are a good person, aren’t you? And people deserve to know that, don’t they?
For just $5 per month, one can indulge in the sufferings of all manner of beast and bovine. And, gorgeously, no effort is actually required. Better yet, your money won’t do anything. Which doesn’t matter. It is the feeling that counts.
Perhaps you could donate to something more tangible. The rebuilding of fire-ravaged Notre Dame, which, as I write, has garnered $1 billion. But why would you? Don’t you know that there are other tragedies befalling this postlapsarian Earth? What about Lebanon? Of course, you didn’t think about Lebanon.
So, join the herd. And wallow in the mere ruination of 850 years of unmatchable mastery. One of the greatest sums of human artistry. The closest to the divine we mortals may ever get. What about the rainforests?
No, dear reader, you haven’t shambled upon The Guardian in seeking the heady good sense of American Greatness. But, if you’re on social media, I’m sure you may have endured such wanton and seamless tripe like that of the above.
It happens every time, after all. Remember when raving primitives murdered hundreds in Paris? The social media mob couldn’t wait to correct the grieving of their emotional misgivings.
“Pray for Paris? WHAT ABOUT [Obscure Event of Definable Tragedy]?!”
On social media, a sporadically caps-locked statement thickened with an interrobang feigns authority.
Underneath each outpouring of condolence, the Tragedy Hipsters pop, grief-shaming all those with the temerity to feel something for something other than that of their own sophisticated and hastily-composed grievance. Their tragedy is more obscure, refined, than your own. Their own tears more consequential. Tragedy Hipsters always prefer the earlier works.
This strange phenomenon is the latest indulgence of the Woke mob. That outrageously boorish gloop of anti-clever therapy hounds petrified of anything threatening to divert attention from their brilliant light.
They’re the kind to scroll through a Twitter feed to unearth a risqué (and often harmless comment) from over a decade ago, and then prosecute the offender in the kangaroo court of social media.
The convicted are then forced into a public apology, seldom contrite enough for the broken braying jackals. They’ll say they’ve “evolved,” or completed some syrupy spiritual “journey.” With firing-squad eyes: they repent.
Such ghastly spectacles used to concern themselves solely with the offending celebrity, the wrong-thinking public figure. Now, the Woke mob’s bloodlust extends to anyone with a social media account—anyone blemished with thoughts which contravene the mob’s ever-shifting moral codes.
Notre Dame was just a building, they say. Built with pales of blood bled from the victims of French colonialism. Apparently. Notre Dame sat completed in the 14th century. Before French colonialism.
To mourn such a loss is to mock the oppressed. Anyone of Western origin is tainted. Anyone like, but except, the mob themselves.
Because they’re content no longer to feed on your ancient Twitter wheezings, your perhaps funny-in-context remarks from moons ago. Now, they want the meat inside your skull.
After all, emotion is entirely personal. No two of 7 billion will or can ever feel exactly the same about Notre Dame, or anything else. Such is the threat to the utopian fantasies of the Woke murder squads.
In an age of encouraged emotional incontinence, the cult of sentimentality rewards the victim. Glance over the Democratic candidates for president: each caters to a specific grievance group. Some are even brave (and venal) enough to try and cobble together a victim coalition.
And this is what identity politics—the most primitive of political creeds—has bred.
But there is hope. Even Bill Maher, squeamish priest of Tragedy Hipsterdom, accepts. Twitter isn’t the electorate. Maher and his ilk might provoke and prod, but the Woke tribe slicks dry at under 10 percent of Americans.
They might dominate social and traditional media, but offline, they’re more a joke than woke. They have less political sting, in fact, than the Hawaiian yellow-faced bee. And one of which, I hope, meets extinction before the other.
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