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

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Let's Talk Typing

When I was a kid, we had an already ancient Royal typewriter at home. Book reports, certain schoolwork, or in my case, just for making noise. Mom had a nice electric typewriter that she used for work. But that old Royal - that's probably where my love of writing began. - MM I was thinking about my old typewriter last night. Writing was serious back then. Forty pounds of steel, keys, and ribbon. No batteries. No updates. No distractions. Just you and the machine. And that machine fought back. Type too fast and the keys would jam together like two drunks fighting in a bar. Type too slowly or too lightly and it might just decide you didn’t really need that letter or that word. Sometimes it felt like the thing had opinions. Like it was quietly judging you. You learned quickly. You learned rhythm. You learned pressure. You learned patience. It was like a built-in editor made of steel and stubbornness. Made a mistake? Start over. Or, if you didn’t mind your work looking like hell, dab s...
Post a Comment
Read more

Fags & Faggots

 It was late February 2002, and I was getting ready for my first trip overseas.  I had lucked into a handful of gigs, and I was thrilled by the chance. I grew up watching lots of Hammer horror films, and almost any British show I could find. Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Benny Hill Show, Dave Allen, and Tommy Cooper were regular viewing thanks to public television. I spent plenty of time reading British literature, especially Arthur Conan Doyle. My maternal grandfather’s family was British, so it’s fair to say I was an Anglophile. I thought I had a pretty good understanding of “the Queen’s English.” I was well acquainted with terms like spanner, lorry, telly, and most hilarious to twelve-year-old me, fags (or cigarettes, for those unaware). I was under the mistaken impression that “wanker” could be used as a term of endearment, not unlike jagoff. I later found this to be…not quite accurate. I was admittedly concerned about the food. While I occasionally consider myself ad...
Post a Comment
Read more

THE BOOK I'LL NEVER WRITE

He sometimes said his greatest regret was not taking the old Trans-Siberian Railway eastward to Lake Baikal. Not because he cared much for bucket lists. He considered such catalogs as vanity with stationery, for those who had wasted decades suddenly writing down ten expensive ways to continue wasting time. No, what he regretted was more precise than that. He regretted never sitting in a dim canteen somewhere near Irkutsk while some broad-faced stranger lied to him magnificently over soup and vodka. He regretted never hearing the room laugh at a joke he only half understood. He regretted missing stories that would now likely never be told the same way again. His body had long since vetoed such ambitions. These days he was lucky if the month’s arithmetic ended with enough left over for prescriptions. If Melinda French Gates wished to finance a crippled Pennsylvanian’s global adventures, he remained open to discussion, but until then, conversations near Lake Baikal would have to survi...
Post a Comment
Read more