I fucking give up. If you want to be offended by everything I write and police my language, please fuck off and go somewhere else.
I try to be as minimally offensive as possible, but you know what, you motherfuckers keep shifting the rules. I’m to the point that I have no idea what is going to upset the delicate flowers any more.
I try to be fair, real, and honest. If I say things that are offensive to you but 90% of the time you agree with me, how about you just deal with it when I am not within the bounds of your idealized PC perfection? Or email me politely?
A couple of (I put that of there for you, EEMOM) fucking weeks ago I made the (APPARENTLY) grievous mistake of saying “illegal aliens.” A bunch of you pounced on me to tell me how horrible I was for using that phrase, and then, in the comments, which exceeded a couple hundred, not one of you politically correct wankers could come up with a term that made you happy. This was your pc circle jerk I had to deal with
“Illegal Alien”- ASSHOLE, THEY ARE NOT ALIENS THEY ARE PEOPLE
“Illegal immigrant”- THEY AREN’T IMMIGRANTS, THEY ARE PEOPLE WHO LIVE AND WORK HERE!
“Illegal residents”- PEOPLE CAN’T BE ILLEGAL!
“Undocumented Immigrants”- HOW ARE THEY IMMIGRANTS WHEN THEY ONCE OWNED THIS LAND?
“Undocumented Workers”- MANY OF THEM ARE JUST KIDS, THEY ARE NOT ALL WORKERS.
And after all that angst, not one fucking person came up with a phrase that satisfied everyone. Can I say “black” or does it have to be “African-American” even though all the “black” dudes I knew in the army hated that term because they were in Germany and Kuwait and elsewhere with me, and their defining characteristic was being FUCKING AMERICAN. Should Elon change the name of his show to “THIS WEEK IN AFRICAN AMERICANESS?” to appease you guys?
Tonight, I quipped about rather “showering in prison,” and of course, that means I favor prison rape. That’s not a “rape” joke. But yet, I get told I am making rape jokes.
At some point, you language police have got to come up with a coherent dictionary for all of us to use, or just shut the fuck up. And then, maybe you should look into intent, take the message for what it was, because if I am public enemy number one, then you losers are going to shit the bed if you ever bust out of your bubble and watch or hear anything outside your little world you have constructed. My goodness, the Marcellus Wallace scenes in Pulp Fiction would probably stroke you out.
So put up or shut up. Give me your PC dictionary so I can be cool and sensitive, or just eat a bag of salted dicks and recognize that not everything said is out of bigotry or malice. Or at least fucking cut me some slack and recognize that should I offend your delicate sensibilities, it was not out of malice. Kapiche?
My god, rap and hip-hop must put you all in the fetal position.
And by the way, I still say third world countries when I know I am supposed to say LDC’s. Some things take time.
*** Update ***
The other thing that drives me insane is the suggestion I am making shit up. From the last thread:
This sounds like another made up story. I’m beginning to wonder about you, Cole.
Why would I make that story up? How does it make me look good in any way? Seriously.
You want to know what a made-up story sounds like? Here goes:
So I had my driver pick me up and take me to the lottery commission because I just won the 600 million dollar powerball, and my friend Heather Graham was in the back seat with me rocking her roller skates ala Boogie Nights. We were driving along, and we found a couple of members of the US Olympic women’s beach volleyball team stranded by the road in a broke down van (wtf were they doing in WV- forget it, it wasn’t over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor, either), so I had my driver pull over, and we tried to help them but they had no cell service or anywhere to be for the next week, so they hopped in the limo and started partying. After I got my check, I went to the bank and deposited it and took home all the cash they had on hand, then went to another branch and cleaned out their cash reserves, too. Then we went home, and I just threw the money on the floor and we all lay there naked in the pile of money doing amyl nitrate until I got bored and said “You know what? I’m going to call my friend Bar Rafaeli and see if she and Brooklyn Decker have any blow and want to party.” I only got hold of Bar, but she said she was supposed to meet Jay-Z and Beyonce, and I told her to just come over with all of them and we could have a helluva good time.
The party was great, but I felt kind of guilty because when I woke up the next morning, this blonde South African girl named Candice (I think her name was Swanepoel) was in bed with me and sobbing because I apparently was a more attentive lover to Allesandra. I apologized and asked her to go to Miami Beach with me for a week to stay in my condo, and then gave her my keys to my spare Lamborghini Murciélago, told her I loved her and would see her in a few days.
That is what made up bullshit looks like. Not “I walked the dogs and came back and there was porn broadcasting through my windows.” Not- “I complimented some woman at the grocery.” Not “I was mopping naked and slipped and almost brained myself in the toilet.”
For fuck’s sake people. Get a grip.