Long live the douchetards
Ok, I had to start out the day with a change of pace. I find myself posting too much Hillary shit, so I’m gonna chill today, I hope.
Here is a good post from daughter-in-law. Enjoy
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Ah, the anonymity of the internet. A lot of people have been talking about it, recently, from folks getting canned for their “I hate my job sooooo much” blogs, to hysterical hand-wringing to the effect of, people having an anonymous forum on which to shoot their mouths off is going to be the downfall of society.There are valid arguments on both sides of the debate, which I, of course, am going to completely disregard. I am far too lazy and undisciplined to have become a legitimate journalist, why the hell should I start acting like one now?
No one who has spent any amount of time interacting with other people in an online setting can throw stones about anonymity, or fibbing about who and what you really are, and what your life is like. Not a damned one of you. Because once you’re sitting at that terminal, with the window for blog comments or instant messaging or board postings blank before you, that cursor blinking, knowing that the person who reads what you’re about to type has no idea who you really are—none of you can honestly say you’ve been completely and totally the same person you would have been sitting across a table from the person, or people, with whom you’re communicating.
Because no matter what the would-be Mary Poppins of the world would like to believe, once you’re behind a mask of any sort, our carefully constructed social barriers fall.
Why the hell do you think costume balls, masques,
and the like have always been so popular? Okay, so back in the day you *had* to know that it was really Lady Prissy McStuffyPants, portly wife of Sir Tightbum McStuffypants, behind that satin mask and feathered dress, but it was the *idea* of anonymity that allowed you to press her up against the balcony wall and shove your hand down her over-taxed bodice. When faces, or names—in short, identities—are concealed, all bets are off. We let go. It’s in our nature, whether we like it or not.
Internet anonymity is like booze and cigar smoke for the Isolation Age (nifty, eh? Coined the phrase myself). The high you get off logging-on under a lame username like b0wlcutAv3nger_16 and then venting all of the venomous, uncivil, racist, xenophobic, or just plain batshit-crazy crap that sometimes runs through your otherwise rational and tolerant brain . . . well, that’s what getting fucked up on cheap vodka and ’ludes used to be for.
It is intoxicating.
It’s cocaine, only cheap and legal and won’t put a hole in your nose. It’s ant-Ecstasy, in that you feel like telling everyone you come into contact with exactly what you feel about them, only instead of how beautiful and shining their spirit is, you let off with what a dicktard they are and how every sentence they’ve ever uttered is an abortion of a thought.
It’s a potent drug—it’s free, it’s legal, it’s more accessible than your mom’s cigarettes or your dad’s secret porn-and-bong stash.
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