Another Doom and Reprisal editorial from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent, Ford Wenty
Welcome to the ascendency of the Karen Kommandos. Karens, like other brands of assholes, come in various stripes. They don’t ALL look like anime wannabes, just a large number of them. I happened to run into one the other day who was of a sufficiently ambiguous identity that I could conclude that “it” was a male at birth (the Adam’s apple the dead giveaway), somewhere in the transition to female and still trying to decide if “it” wanted to identify as an anime character. Speaking for myself these are not encounters that occur frequently; thus, they are approached with great caution.
This was not in any circumstance where any of these matters should have made any difference, but I nonetheless readied myself for the obligatory pronoun lecture. Thankfully this did not come, yet I was prepared with my standard response: Hi, I’m Ford, I am a man and my pronouns are I don’t give a shit and go fuck yourself. One might well imagine that this response does nothing to endear me to those professing their gender fluidity. And that is just fine with me. I’m not looking to make friends and am perfectly content with my own company. This particular encounter, however, was not without some measure of controversy.
The venue of this event was at a merchant who shall remain nameless. It is an establishment, like many, who have posted the obligatory signs on the door indicating the governor’s mask order, but one that does not go to great pains to enforce the mandate. Apparently the management of this store have rightly concluded that it is not their job to act as the impotent executive’s hatchet man. Apparently this clerk did not get the memo.
I entered the store without a mask, got my coffee and a couple of biscuits. Up to that point this visit was without incident. Arriving at the counter to pay I was greeted with a heavy sigh and a quite pronounced rolling of the eyes from our clerk. I’ll call it Pikachu.
“Is there a problem?”
“No…will there be anything else for you today?” The tone was snarky.
“Hey, I’m a big boy. You got something to say? Well spit it out.”
Again the eye roll. “You’re supposed to wear a mask.”
“Why? I’m not robbing you.”
“Well the governor….”
“Lemme tell ya something. I don’t give one fiddler’s fuck what that piece of shit says. You either sell me this shit or I can go and get the same damned thing at a drive thru.”
I had exact change. It took the money and I collected my merchandise. As far as I was concerned this transaction was concluded. Then, as I was walking away I heard Pikachu mutter under it’s breath “Why didn’t you just go to the damned drive thru then”.
I wasn’t in any particular hurry. The store really wasn’t busy at the time. So I turned….
“Well because if I had gone to the drive thru I would have missed this enchanting encounter.”
It blushed. Apparently Pikachu thought I wouldn’t hear.
“I don’t have any quarrel with you, friend. I understand what you’re being told. How many people come in here without a mask ? Half? Do you do this to all of them?”
I didn’t expect an answer and I didn’t get one. It was at that moment that I realized that I was looking at a Karen. Maybe not full grown yet, more of a proto-Karen. There have been some fine women with the name Karen. It is a shame that the name has become synonymous with the busybody, the whiner, the fink. Unfortunately it is not only names that have been co-opted to other purposes, all in the headlong march to a shameless society. A culture of shame conducted by those without any of their own.
I don’t know if I’ll see Pikachu again, at least not in the same place. Pikachu will probably end up at Chipotle, serving bowls of diarrhea to other cartoon characters. Or Starbucks, serving frappes with the same eye rolling snark. And that’s just fine by me. They deserve each other. Pikachu is a player in this tale, but it’s not about him/her/it.
I hearken back to a simpler time, just a year ago, when Karen Kommandos were up in arms over Ohio’s “heartbeat bill”; another in a long succession of poorly crafted legislation. It was then that I had witnessed another herd of these blue and purple haired crusaders picketing with signs, “My body, my choice”, and decrying Mike Dewine as the devil incarnate. The bill did not ban abortion, but did place some serious restrictions upon the practice. I concede that it is faulty (again, as is nearly all legislation), but I take issue with that being conflated into a full blown assault upon “women’s reproductive rights”. This is quite typical of leftist ideology. It is not enough to accept, to co-exist, to reach a compromise. No, their ideology must be wholeheartedly embraced. Anything less than that and you’re Hitler.
That protest was no more about women’s health issues than the current crop of mask scolders are about public health issues. It’s about politics. Theirs. They have injected politics into every aspect of society. The proof is in the fact that the very same mob who marched beneath a banner of “My body, my choice”; the same brand of strident, screeching harridans who had placed a bounty upon the miserably misshapen head of the governor, now embrace the notion that the very same man possesses the godlike authority to rule the very air we breath. And you had all better comply. Or else.
Irony is alive and well in 2020. It parades about the streets like some hyper-defined bodybuilder, wearing a speedo, all oiled and jacked up on steroids. It strolls without shame, ready to turn it’s roid rage upon any heretic who should dare to call it out. It suggests that we should accept and embrace a script wherein if one should disobey the governor’s orders and not wear a mask, then you are killing grandma and grandpa. Yet when the same governor signs a bill that prevents snuffing out the life of a child after a certain number of weeks into a pregnancy, then it is time to launch the revolution?
When opinions are formed from a lack of information this is ignorance, an ignorance born in innocence rather than malice. Opinions formed from misinformation are a cancer and our current body politic is fast approaching stage four. Perhaps we should be striving to find a cure for this too, because if not this will kill far more than this virus could ever hope to.
Ford Wenty report end, 23 July 2020