Dear under-exercised, overly-emotional little brain pustules,
If you took offense to either the title, the salutation, or the color blue used on this website (patriotism can be “triggering,” I know), I’m writing this open letter to you. You’re a wimp. “Wimp” is a word I’m using on the advice of counsel. I’d prefer to type out a five letter word starting with “P” and rhyming with “wussy” but the lawyers said no.
That’s actually a lie, I’m just trying to be more ladylike with both the spoken and written word. Someone has to balance out the pierced, forked tongued feminists. Well, here I am.
Trigger-warning: no more trigger-warnings. If you need a trigger-warning, might I suggest you relocate your cranium to the top of your neck where it actually belongs, not where it currently finds itself, lodged in the deepest cavities of your rectum. Perhaps the deep-seated pain is the cause of all your needless outrage, yes? The etymology of the appellation “butt-head” has never been clearer.
Also, spoiler alert? The Perpetually Outraged mutation of homo sapien knows no borders. They’re equal opportunity mutants, running the gamut of generation, gender, religion, and political philosophy. Yes, even some conservatives can, and should, be counted among the Perpetually Outraged genus. If you consider yourself a “conservative” and were just triggered? Uh oh. Maybe get tested. See above paragraph for testing suggestions.
But why, why are you so constantly triggered? Of course, I have a theory.
Once upon a time in your spoiled, coddled little lives, mommy or daddy (but probably just mommy) sat you down, gave you a cookie for no apparent reason (other than kickstarting your diabetes) and said: “Your feelings matter” … more than they actually matter. Sure, yes, feelings matter. Ish. But they do not outweigh truth. This little feeling nugget of a lie was nurtured by the self-esteem incubation tank known as “public school” where your feelings held more weight than whether or not you were right. Or wrong. Two plus two equals whatever makes you feel special, Johnny. And yes, it’s fine if you prefer to wear a dress.
We’ll kindly ignore the penis.
Therefore you believe yourself superior simply because you possess such strong gut feelings. You believe being “outraged” is somehow a guiding tool, much like a compass. If you’re “outraged” by something, it means you, the cotton-headed ninnymuggin reading this open letter, are in the right. Outrage is your true north. While your opposition is in the wrong. For no other reason than how The Offender has made you feel.
Side note: you’ll notice a theme to my writing. I despise people allowing their personal feelings to trump critical thought. Read also Dear Liberals: If You Actually Cared About People, You Wouldn’t be Liberal… and Dear Liberals: Your Cult-like Faith in Government is Disturbing…
An example. Last week Ellen Degeneres, a card-carrying member of the LGBTQAAP (silent F) tweeted a Usian Bolt meme of her riding Usian’s back. As a joke. Ellen is, after all, a comedian with her own talk show, where she tells many a joke and makes many a mockery. The Perpetually Outraged took it upon themselves to burden the rage, not even Usian Bolt could muster (he retweeted the meme), suggesting Ellen thought Bolt was nothing more than a burro meant to be ridden to Trader Joes. When all she was doing was complimenting the speed of his run. Which anyone would realize if they were using their brains to think.
Didn’t matter. The Perpetually Outraged descended on Ellen like the flesh-eating zombies you are. On the hunt for the thinking brains of their opposition.
Well on behalf of everyone still in possession of a nominally functioning brain: Please, for the sake of humanity, staple your mouths shut. Super glue your keyboard-tapping fingers to wherever your head is located, whether that be north or south of your belly button.
And yes, if you can be perpetually outraged, in need of trigger warnings, then I can be outraged at your outrage. Like some kind of Outrage-ception. How do you like the heat turned on you? It’s probably a difficult burden to bear, what with your tissue-paper thin skin. Which is insulting to the glorious TP, which at least serves some utility as it cleanses waste from your buttish aperture. Or your head. Again, depending on the anatomical location of your cranium.
You bitch about TV shows. You bitch about memes. You bitch about sports stars who do not fall in line with your unthinking ways. You’re triggered over words. You fall apart over chalk signs. You demand safe-spaces. You tweet, you tweet, you tweet from the darkened, musty confines of your parent’s basements. Or symbolic basements.
You are the weakest among our species.
Get a life. A real life. A life with a purpose. No, “purpose” is not to bitch about being paid more money for nothing. Do not mistake “purpose” as an excuse to be a slacking, whining little pansy. Get a life which involves more than screaming and gnashing of teeth. Put your choppers to more use than simply screaming chants. Use your fingers for more than stupid hashtags. Perhaps you celebrate the planet you believe you’re saving by going outside in it. Run up a hill. Walk down it. Run up it again. Repeat until you’re no longer outraged over a word.
Before you leave a comment expressing your outrage…
We, the people who are forced to share the planet with you whining wimps of suck, are done with your needles screaming over issues that do not matter, while you either ignore or excuse issues which do (like, say ABORTION for example).
We’re done with you. We’re calling you out: You’re wimps. You’re pansies. You’re weaklings who deserve nothing but a spanking. Or a smack. Again depending on the anatomical location of your cranium.
Written by Courtney Kirchoff