Skip to main content

Fat Girls, Mini Bikes, and PatriotEagle420


 I woke up this morning, made coffee, and before I even got a sip in, I was already being informed that something - somewhere - was unacceptable.

No context. No details. Just the digital equivalent of a stranger bursting into your kitchen yelling:

“THIS IS NOT OK.”

What is it?

Nobody knows.

But we’re furious.

Because in 2026, outrage isn’t a reaction - it’s a hobby.


People don’t wake up wondering what they’re going to do anymore.

They wake up wondering what they’re going to be mad about.

“Give us this day our daily grievance.”

And when they find it - and they always do - they gather.

Not to understand. Not to fix.

To perform.

You’ve got the Outraged.

The Counter-Outraged.

The Late Arrivals, somehow the angriest of all.

And of course, PatriotEagle420, who hasn’t read a full sentence since 2008 but is absolutely certain this is tyranny.

Meanwhile, the one poor bastard asking, “Wait… what actually happened?” gets treated like he just farted in church.

Now here’s the part nobody wants to admit:

Most of this isn’t about principle.

It’s about approval.

It’s about making sure the crowd - your friends, your followers, your little digital jury - knows you’re on the “right side of history.”

Which brings us to a universal truth that deserves to be taught in schools, but won’t be because it would solve too many problems:


Fat girls and mini bikes.


Both are a hell of a good time…

right up until you start worrying about what somebody else is gonna think.

And just like that, the joy evaporates.

Replaced by self-consciousness, hesitation, and the creeping fear that somewhere, somehow, someone might laugh at you.

So instead of enjoying your life, you start managing your image.

You don’t say what you think - you say what will be approved.

You don’t believe things - you subscribe to them.

You don’t live - you curate.

And if that means joining a mob over something you barely understand?

Well...better that than being the one guy who didn’t boo.

Of course, because we’ve completely lost the plot, we’ve decided the solution is government.

Naturally.

Because when your social circle might disapprove of your opinions, the obvious next step is to involve a massive bureaucracy with the power to enforce them.

“Hello, yes, I’d like to report a disagreement. Please send legislation.”

And politicians - bless their opportunistic little black hearts - see this and think:

Oh, this is fantastic.

They don’t have to fix anything.

They just have to point.

“Those people are the problem.”

“Give me power and I’ll handle it.”

Handle it.

Like society’s a leaky faucet and they’ve got a wrench.

And people eat it up, because controlling others feels a whole lot easier than controlling yourself.

But here’s the punchline:

If you stopped worrying so much about what other people think…

Half of this nonsense disappears overnight.

No mobs.

No performance outrage.

No desperate need to prove you’re morally superior to a guy named PatriotEagle420 who thinks Wi-Fi causes socialism.

Just people...living.

Enjoying things.

Disagreeing like adults and then going about their day.

So here’s a radical idea:

If nobody’s getting hurt - mind your own damned business.

Live your life.

Ride who or what you want to ride.

And if somebody laughs?

Let them.

Because the only thing worse than being laughed at...

Is spending your entire life trying to avoid it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got coffee to finish.

And I’m sure, somewhere out there, something is still not OK.

It can wait.

Oh, and half of the crap you see online is courtesy of bots. 

So there’s a decent chance you’ve been trying to impress a toaster.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

An Old Photo

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...

A Bluesy Melody and a Scratchy Photograph

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't born in the mountains. Nor had he been raised in a cave. His appearance, though, often led people to think otherwise. A barber's chair was as likely a place for him to visit as the moon. I don't believe he had ever shaved. His hair, long and unkempt, looked even longer thanks to his seemingly endless beard, which was braided and knotted at the bottom. If unfurled, it probably would have dipped well below his waist.  His mannerisms and manner, while peculiar, were so only in that he was almost religiously polite. What at first glance might appear stand-offish was nothing more than his attempts at being inobtrusive. He was almost like some Appalachian monk, raised by a society trapped in the past, who occasionally ventured into town. He was extremely well-read and more tech savvy than most teenagers. Utmost, he maintained his privacy. No one knew just where he lived. He came and went at his own leisure, unnoticed by the world until he mad...

The American

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own. He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine.  And he did. He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He ...