[Vision2020] Pity Party at Doug's Place: BYOTV

[Joan Opyr]

BYOTV
(Bring Your Own Tiny Violin)
  
Dear Visionaries,
  
I've been reading that very interesting book, The Sociopath Next Door, by Dr. Martha Stout.  Sociopaths -- who Stout claims make up about 4% of the population -- have no conscience.  They feel no guilt, no remorse, and no pity.  They act purely in their own self-interest; other people are merely pawns in the great game of self-aggrandizement that each sociopath plays.
  
I am not, of course, a psychologist, and unlike Dr. Laura, I don't diagnose others without that qualification.  I mention Dr. Stout's book for two reasons: first, because I think everyone should read it.  Sociopaths outnumber anorexics and bulimics, who are believed to exist in near-epidemic numbers, but unlike those with eating disorders, sociopaths cause tremendous harm to other people.   

Secondarily, bits of Dr. Stout's book are beginning to sound eerily familiar.  I know that when you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail, but according to Dr. Stout, the one certain way to spot a sociopath is his or her ultimate reliance on the "pity ploy."  When all else fails, the sociopath whines that he or she is an innocent victim, picked upon mercilessly and unfairly by the mean, the jealous, the ignorant and the unfeeling.  It doesn't matter what the sociopath has done; even when caught red-handed, he or she will lie, lie, lie, right to your face.  And then the tiny violins will begin playing the theme song from one of Charlie Chaplin's Little Tramp movies, and the pity party will begin.
  
Well, the pity party has certainly begun over on the Wilson and Courtney blogs (dougwils.com and right-mind.us).  Dale has grown the Chaplin mustache, and Doug has boiled and eaten his own boot.  It's clear that the denizens of NSA have met in a dark smoky room somewhere and coined an outrageous new term for this new and terrifying threat: legitimate criticism.  The term they've coined?  "Diversity cleansing."  It's an offensive term, far worse than the silly "Intoleristas," which no one apart from Jim Fisher ever took seriously.  "Diversity cleansing" implies that the failure to pay their fair share of property taxes somehow makes Doug and his various profitable business enterprises the moral equivalent of genocide victims in Yugoslavia, Rwanda, and Sudan.   

I can see Wilson, Jones, Courtney and Atwood now, cooking up this new strategy over a round of brandy and cigars:
  
"They're picking on me," says Doug, pouting into his snifter.
  
"Are you going to eat some worms?" asks Dale.
  
"Or a pretzel?" suggests Roy.
  
"Belt up," says Jones.  "This is serious.  We need to get on top of this situation.  Huskey and Lund are riding us like a Georgia mule.  What we need is a name for this abuse.  We need a cool slogan like . . . "  
  
"You deserve a break today?" Dale suggests eagerly.
  
Roy nods enthusiastically.  "Yeah.  You deserve a break today, and at New St. Andrews, we do it all for you."
  
"No, damn it," snarls Jones.  “We need something like Intoleristas, a term that will direct attention away from our little property tax peccadilloes and onto Huskey and Lund as the God-hating, Jesus-kicking, queer-loving meany-weenies that they really are."
  
"I've got it!" snaps Doug.  "Feminazis!"
  
"That's already been copyrighted by Rush Limbaugh, Doug," says Jones.
  
"So?  Look how long it took Fogel and Engermann to get onto us."
  
"No," insists Jones.  "What we need is a term like . . . diversity cleansing.  Eureeka!  What do you think?"
  
"I think I’m hungry," says Dale.  "Can we go to McDonald’s?"

"I want a Happy Meal," agrees Roy.  "With a boy's toy."
  
"I hate that boy's toy stuff," sniffs Dale.  "I want a Bratz doll.  Why can't I have a Bratz doll, Doug?"
  
"I've explained this to you a million times," sighs Doug.  "You're a Man of Chest.  You have to get the basketball game."
  
"I don't like the basketball game," whines Dale.  "The Bratz have such cool outfits."
  
"Never mind," says Roy, patting Dale on the back.  "You can have a Mighty Kids meal.  That comes with extra McNuggets."
  
Dale perks up.  "So, when do we start blogging?  I've got my laptop right here.  I had my fingers sewn to the keyboard with fishing line, and the plug is right up my . . ."
  
"Over-sharing," says Jones.  "Now remember, the line is diversity cleansing.  Get it?  Got it?  Good."
  
The remainder of the brandy is sniftered, the cigars are stubbed out, and -- after Dale has posted to his blog as fast as his little fingers can type -- he and Roy are off to see the Hamburgler.
  
Meanwhile, Jones goes back to the Credenda Agenda office to think of new ways in which to make God wholly unappealing.  Doug has three more brandies, a raspberry and cheese-filled croissant, a ham sandwich, two Danish butterhorns, a slice of carrot cake with apricot glaze, and one wafer-thin mint.  Then he cruises back to his office in his church-supplied pickup truck and launches his new campaign: Operation Diversity Cleansing.
  
"Ha," he thinks, snickering over his keyboard like Precious Pup and munching on a Twinkie, "I'll pass this one on to that sap Jim Fisher.  Huskey and Lund will never know what hit 'em.  Tee-hee, tee-hee, tee-hee."

Then, struck by the lightening bolt of yet another brainstorm, he calls out, "Hey, Nate!  Have you tried making a Shroud of Turin using a napkin, fry sauce and a Bratz doll?  Get on it, boy, get on it!  I’ll call Peter Jennings."
  
Joan Opyr/Auntie Establishment
www.auntie-establishment.com

PS: Author's disclaimer -- the Wilson, Jones, Atwood and Courtney who appear in the above story are purely figments of my fevered imagination.  Any resemblance to persons by those names, either living or dead or typing on their blogs, is purely coincidental.
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