More Disgusting Lies From the Nanny-Campus

Have you heard about “male toxicity”? Apparently, some rather small private colleges, as well as the usual Ivy League suspects, are forcing eighteen-year-old boys to sit through accusatory lectures about the wickedness inherent in their gender. I honestly don’t understand why parents continue paying through the nose to send their children to such places.

The hypocrisy of the avant-garde feminist victimology-mill is truly stupefying—it soars above Himalayan altitudes. Feminists insisted in my youth that women had precisely the same right to sexual experimentation and promiscuity as males enjoy (the assertion that males in fact so behave having never been verified, or even held up for a second look). Naturally, college-aged boys were delighted—at least those who were not brought up with a resistant coat of gentlemanliness that didn’t crack under abuse for holding doors open. Promiscuity ruled the Seventies and Eighties until it created a culture of savage thirst for gratification and a sentimental nausea whenever love intruded upon sex. Young men, especially in the campus’s crucible, became boors. For the past several years, feminists have now tried to outdo each other in insults aimed at anything male. Despite evidence that slaps the observer in the face like a neo-feminist stormtrooper to whom you’ve offered your seat on a crowded bus, the contention these days is that manners are NOT taught. No: young men misbehave on campus because it’s in their genes. Their “maleness” may be subdued in some measure by toilet-training, just as a dog may be taught not to bark at strangers; but Mother Nature always lurks just beneath the surface—and the sneaky tramp is a male!

Enough, already. I’m a racist because I’m Caucasian, I’m a reactionary because I’m old, I’m a rapist because I’m male, I’m a Nazi because I’m anti-statist, I’m a flat-earther because I believe in a metaphysical reality… and did I note that I’m a racist because I’m a Southerner? We can double down on that one.

In short, before I’ve lifted a finger or opened my mouth, I am guilty of every vile, obscene, or atrocious behavior and conviction known to modern man… er, modern humankind. And the people who liberally pile these insults upon me do so deliberately and repeatedly, without one thought for my feelings, while not one of my innumerable offenses can be linked to any specific act that I have personally performed.

You see, my just being the things that I am implies to these deranged, slavering accusers that I am at least thinking forbidden thoughts. Implication is reality: if as long as they think wicked thoughts into my head, then I own the wickedness. I am responsible somehow for not adequately, visibly neutralizing the threat in my occupying the body bestowed upon me by the dictates of DNA.

Why does any group of people have the right to impose thoughts upon me? Or let’s stipulate that sometimes I entertain some reprehensible thoughts: why does anyone have the right to ignore that my behavioral choices have overridden a dishonorable impulse in an assertion of reason and will—how can any human being be prosecuted, even correctly, for having a bad thought? And why do my persecutors get to have bad thoughts and to act upon them with free rein?

There’s such a stench to the moral saloperie that IS the contemporary nanny-campus that I can’t discuss it any further and keep my blood pressure down. You liars! You wicked, wicked liars! You disgust me.

 

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Author: nilnoviblog

I hold a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature (Latin/Greek) but have not navigated academe very successfully for the past thirty years. This is owed partly to my non-PC place of origin (Texas), but probably more to my conviction--along with the ancients--that human nature is immutable, and my further conviction--along with Stoics and true Christians-- that we have a natural calling to surmount our nature. Or maybe I just don't play office politics well. I'm much looking forward to impending retirement, when I can tend to my orchards and perhaps market the secrets of Dead Ball hitting that I've excavated. No, there's nothing new (nil novi) under the sun... but what a huge amount has been forgotten, in baseball and elsewhere!

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