The Plight of the Domesticated Animal


Dear Bill O’Reilly,

it’s been a while since I’ve written. I know it’s out of season. Santa Claus is safely tucked away in one of his many summer homes, the Easter Bunny’s getting fat on carrots and hay, Hallowe’en and the drunk, slutty nurses and clowns you like to interview for their informed, political opinions are working on their summer tans. There’s a run on ambrosia and illegal fireworks at Walmart, as the Fourth of July is just around the corner.

All is well in America.

You were on my mind, so I looked you up and saw that you had a presentation at the 92nd Street YMCA. The article I read said that you charmed the secret society of non-liberal New York with anecdotes about your co-workers. I would expect nothing less and I’m sorry I missed you. I liked that your peer Geraldo Rivera moderated the audience Q and A. And you, a class act, didn’t mention his Twitter art campaign of nearly naked selfies title “70 is the new 50,” meaning, I suppose, that dementia can take hold at any moment. Woe to the television personality who carries a smart-phone in his hand when it hits.

All my curiosity about your led me down the maze of the internet to a slew of open letters to George Will, the 73-year-old Washington Post journalist who decried the privileges of being a college rape survivor in his syndicated op-ed column. He writes:

“Colleges and universities… are learning that when they say campus victimizations are ubiquitous (“micro-aggressions,” often not discernible to the untutored eye, are everywhere), and that when they make victimhood a coveted status that confers privileges, victims proliferate…”

He refers to “the supposed campus epidemic of rape, aka. ‘sexual assault,'” and complains about self-entitled, wealthy, thin-skinned co-ed who can’t take a little pinch on the behind, an aggressive grope in the corner of a frat house, or uninvited intercourse. Think of all the privileges those girls get. If they’re smart enough to put “sexual assault” under “experience” on their resume when they enter the workforce, they’ll knock out the competition. For sure.

What does the rapist get? A dirty conscience, maybe herpes, and a bad reputation.

Poor George. All those mean letters. For the whole world to see. He was even fired from a few papers because of his piece. He’s a pariah.

After reading the article, and a few responses, I was thinking that maybe you and I should go in and hire a nice, drunk, college football player to rape him. Even if he declines the gesture, I’m sure he really wants it. Those guys can last all night.

However, my very wise, very able friend, a former escort, once declared “whoever invented viagra should be forced to fuck an old man.” So, the other part of me thinks this might traumatize that college jock. This sort of event could follow him the rest of his life.

Also, I figure George already feels violated by all the people being mad at him. I bet he feels really raped, without the risk of pregnancy, STD, social stigma, or PTSD. All for showing up to the party dressed like an asshole. Poor guy. I hope he’s able to enjoy and profit from this coveted victim status. It’s the privilege of being an age-addled, testosterone deficient, brain-frozen adult.

And maybe, before he leaves this world, he will find at least one last sweet, young woman who will let him grope her without complaint.

The other thing that came up today that made me think of you were the seven deadly sins and their matching virtues, which showed up on a websearch. Lust/ Chastity, Gluttony/ Temperance, Greed/ Charity, Sloth/ Diligence/ Wrath/ Patience, Envy/ Kindness, and Pride/ Humility. I want to petition the Pope to add Ignorance, Stupidity, and Stagnation to the list.

Though, if he does, I’m afraid none of us will make it out alive.

George’s article weighs heavy on my mind. i see what he was trying to say. Behind the safety of misogyny and the siren song of victimhood for all, he has a point that should be considered.

I think what he’s trying to say is this: political correctness will be the end of us. If no one’s allowed to say what they really think, there will never be a conversation. The doors won’t open, the floodgates will be blocked by dams of milquetoast sentiments.

We need to hear the bad, the ugly, the things we don’t want to know. It’s through the murk and the mud that we’ll emerge stronger and better people. If you shove it all down, and bottle it up, the ingredients will ferment and the top will pop. It’s through talking that we learn what we think. And through discourse, we can, at the very least understand each other, and at the very best, evolve.

If we keep talking, writing, listening, we can extinguish the burning ulcers that plague our human culture. But we have to want to do this.

When everyone’s right, it’s hard to have a discussion. When you think everyone else is wrong, you’ll never listen. When we talk in code, and use rhetoric instead of our unique brains, vocabulary, and perspectives, we’ll never understand what we’re saying.

Which is not to suggest that people shouldn’t be sensitive. Polite. Well-meaning. Courteous. Well-rounded…

But who am I? No one. Just some middle-class punk sitting in front of a computer. Thinking thoughts and writing them down.

I know you have a little problem with most of the deadly sins, Bill. Seems like Lust, Greed, Wrath, Pride, and possibly Gluttony have gotten the better of you more than once.

Maybe you and I should aspire to the seven virtues.

Except, I’ll probably leave out Chastity. In the literal sense of the word, anyway. But you can keep it.

Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with rubbing bellies once in a while, so long as everyone’s on the same page. No matter what the Pope says.

Bill, I have a confession to make. I know we don’t see eye to eye on anything besides Christmas. And we don’t share a whole lot, aside from a deep reverence for Santa Claus, but I kind of like you. I like your scrappy attitude. Your say-it-like-it-is demeanor. I like your smile and how you turn red and blustery, like you’re caught in a wind tunnel, when you’re passionate about bashing whoever you’re bashing.

You know what I like best about you, Bill? I like that speak your mind. I like that you make me think. I like that you’re you.

Yeah. I think you’re okay.




3 thoughts on “The Plight of the Domesticated Animal

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