Remain calm. This post is a lament on commentarian sloppiness. It is not about blow jobs. At least not much. If I mention them here it is only to give my example comment some context. If you have something to say about blow jobs, send it to Penthouse.
Recently I wrote an essay in which I seditiously suggested, like I do in every other essay I write, that the dominant culture imposes inequities on human beings according to their sex. I used heterosexual fellatio to illustrate this sweepingly radical notion. This essay generated a pestilence of asinine responses, both here and on other blogs. Behold a randomly selected sample, the gist of which has been nearly universal among my fearsome cocksucking detractors (I have kept the typo intact for that authentic commentarian flava):
Um, who kneels these days? I prefer a comfy chair with the patriarch standing at attention before me. Why should’t I be comfortable? Like frisee, keep the bjs off your plate if you don’t care for them, but don’t outlaw them for the rest of us!
Let us now go where no blog post has gone before: to the stream-of-consciousness musings with which I was afflicted after having read this sample comment and its many identical brethren, published here for the first time ever on the World Wide Web:
First I experienced revulsion, which is understandable since the remark commences with ‘um’. Wherefore this mania for beginning a written sentence with preverbal grunts? It is grueling enough slogging through 16,723 comments saying ‘Where do you get off expressing an opinion on your own blog, you prudey asexual?” without having to endure 5th grade speech viruses ironically affected by adults engaged in a limp effort to convey condescension.
I then experienced amazement that a woman could, in 2006, take pride in publicly announcing that she happily sucks off someone she refers to as ‘the patriarch.”
Then I experienced revulsion again.
Then I thought, “How can a blow job be on a plate? God help us all, the metaphor is dead!”
Then I wondered why people who have clearly omitted to read my essays insist on responding to them. This bizarre conduct absolutely mystifies me. The logical thing to do, when you haven’t read an essay, is to not comment on it. Lest you look like an ass. I know this from years of experience of not reading essays and not commenting on them. Many’s the time I’ve been asked, “Twisty, what is the recipe for success in the cutthroat world of not looking like an ass?” My answer? “Not reading essays and not commenting on them, Grasshopper. It’s a winner!”
Yet our commenter, like so many before her, has, in her haste to lead an unexamined life, not only made erroneous assumptions concerning the actual content of my post, but has elected to publish her response to this mythical content on the blog, thereby diluting the sterling quality of the discourse.
For instance (I mused), in drawing out of thin air the supposition that I desire to ‘outlaw’ her favorite pastime, she misconstrues my observations on the universal ramifications of patriarchal intrigue as some kind of official decree threatening the venerable American institution of cocksucking. She has, in other words, leapt to the conclusion that I endeavor to control her, presumably because I am a mutant who can bend people to my will just by writing stuff.
At this juncture I greatly enjoyed a reverie based on a scenario wherein I could bend people to my will just by writing stuff. Whereupon I thought, “If my magnificence was such that I actually could outlaw stuff merely by expressing an opinion on an obscure blog, would I really squander my superpower on some pedestrian hetero sex act? Hell no. I would outlaw Austin traffic, worship of dead Jews, and all supercilious parroting of the directives of the status quo.”
And then the dinner bell rang.