It appears those who peacock their open-mindedness and compassion also wish death on those with whom they disagree.
British Prime Minister Boris Johnson spent a few challenging days in intensive care while his unborn baby lays in the womb. His chances of seeing that child were only 50-50 on Sunday. The “tolerant” among us hoped he would die.
Those who mock “thoughts and prayers” in quieter times offer “good vibes” and the mystical power of “healing crystals” which are proven to conjure cash from the credulous.
The same people insist with maniacal rictus that The Universe guides their lives, yet religion is “fairy tales.”
Yes, The Universe (which is not God—the tolerant are too advanced for such fancy) confides in their daily marginalia, grants them their wishes. It’s all about “vibes” if you’re prone to such piffle.
Their compassion casts a brilliant light. “I hope Boris dies” is the gist.
Now, I’m not a linguistic anthropologist, nor am I designated an Orisha in Santeria, but to hope someone dies, I’d imagine, bleeds on the negative edges of the spiritual plane.
Perhaps, my narrow mind craves a warping dose of ibogaine. Or at least a copy of The Secret.
Yes, the tolerant and compassionate heap hatred on someone with whom they disagree, yet the benevolent Universe admires their downward dog. Good vibes. Or something.
Still following? If any of this makes sense to you, please be assured it does not. Although, my third eye chakra is blocked.
A psychiatrist once told me you could tell a lot about someone by what they tell themselves in public. I’ve noticed a trend. Those sending good vibes and compassion tend to spew an impressive nastiness when the moment looms.
I’ve always thought the Left were the good guys. And one such good guy couldn’t contain his compassion.
Tim Owen, a Bristol restaurateur, graced his Facebook page with a life-revealing candor akin to the clarity one is said to enjoy upon the moment of death.
As Boris rushed into intensive care on Sunday night, Owen posted:
“I hope the cunt dies. Evil piece of shit. As are all Tories.”
His Facebook bio says he “prefers love over hate.”
Owen’s restaurant—the bougie kind serving sourdough for $20 and calling it a “taste experience”—he concedes, is “finished.”
Joining him, a Labour mayor who said Boris “completely deserved” his peril later got kicked out of the Labour Party and sacked by her law firm.
I hope it’s not too narrow-minded to call that “karma.”
The bad news for Owen and his ilk is that Boris Johnson is “responding to treatment” and is “sitting up and chatting” with nurses and doctors. He should pull through. Yet at the time the tolerant touted their twaddle on Twitter, his chances were touch and go.
Perhaps this is not new. When Margaret Thatcher died, many celebrated in the streets, and on social media.
Now, I’m no fan of Thatcher or of Thatcherism. Her tenure trampled many souls, staining them with dirty needles and the dole.
Yet to disagree is one thing. To celebrate, or wish death, is another.
Boris, like Thatcher, invites such bile from some quarters, because, like her, he’s rendered the Left irrelevant.
Almost prime minister, Jeremy Corbyn, demigod of the Woke, is now consigned to the backbenches. His replacement, Keir Starmer, is wet-fish.
The “Nasty Party” that Corbyn spent 30 years fighting now pays 80 percent of furloughed workers’ wages. Their rescue package put plumbers before pinstripes.
That same party is now the party of the National Health Service, long a psychological cosh employed by Labour to brain the skulls of their weary voters.
Perhaps, the sight of a Tory prime minister clapping outside Number 10 in honor of NHS workers was too much for the compassionate to bear.
These last few weeks, many have taken Thursday evening to their doorsteps to “Clap for Our Carers.” Last night, they did the same for Boris.
And Labour has noticed. Fifty-four percent (the highest ever) would vote Conservative tomorrow. Near three-quarters approve of Boris Johnson.
Perhaps the trolls realize those making society hum are the real influencers. And most of them voted for Boris. Nobody cares about Millennial Seb’s artisan mustache wax “journey” in the rolling of the ’Rona.
As Boris battles back, the nation, at least its sentient portion, has got behind him. Nurses display well-wishes. Children pen letters of goodwill.
Even my liberal friends, though they will not admit it, waited for Boris’s evening broadcasts much like they would “Love Island.”
Perhaps the reality had finally settled in. Few now disagree that Sunday night’s news didn’t rattle their nerves. If this disease can wipe out the most powerful figure in the country, then it can lay waste to any one of us. It became all a little too real.
As thousands, and their families, have found out, the virus doesn’t care who you are, or who you voted for.