Feint Praise For Those Performing Feats Of Clay

There is a certain kind of mind that, at first, appears more than averagely appealing — sharp, witty, funny, incisive, its possessor approaches with overtures of friendship that we take for positive sign of a kindred spirit well met.

Sooner or later, however, they invariably reveal a facet that is not simply reflective of a bad day … or even of a bad life … but rather of something darker, something mean-spirited, something that is, for all its seeming innocence, in its way, predatory.

Ostensibly concerned for our wellbeing in some way … or even overtly doubting the purity of our spirit … they criticise something … some aspect of us or our behaviour … like the concerned parent or mentor they aren’t.

Not so subtly supercilious, with a hint of condescension, they passive-aggressively patronise us — gently denigrating us with back-handed compliments and sanctimony disguised as wisdom and insight dispensed with love.

Yet they cannot possibly love us … not so soon … for they know us not and, at most, may merely fancy that they do, only to devalue us with as much passionate intensity as, unasked, they first (seemingly) idolised us.

Their sensibilities, not sensitivity, will out … and then their true purpose is revealed … to us, if not to themselves—to whit, their search for evidence of their own superiority.

Self-satisfied, they find, once again that the other is no better than they and thus their perspicacity a reductio ad absurdum proof of our inherent inferiority, their self-fulfilling insight a sign of their own superiority … with which, whip-like, they then chastise us for some minor … or major … infraction of their unstated rule that … to be worthy of their unsolicited, yea undesired, time and attention … we must prove ourselves all they, in moments of unflinching honesty, fear they aren’t … namely no more nor no less than all we appear to be — perhaps imperfect but perfectly so for all that … all we may and, most significantly, do honestly claim to be.

Their own, ultimately warranted, sense of inferiority leads them to seek out others with whom they can find fault — and, naturally, the tastiest fruits of that foray are those who appear superior.

This may, at first, appear no more than a court-jester-like pricking of the conscience of the hypocritically pious or the fatuously self-regarding … yet we may well ask, after a while, whom these secret knights in shining armour actually serve on their moral crusade to effect not substantive change in the World around them but to bring others down a priggishly pointless peg or two — a task that is not merely performed along their journey but that is their very goal … their challenges issued … their gauntlets cast before … not the great and the good but those who are no worse than they themselves.

Knowing themselves not to be contenders for such, they do not challenge those at peak performance, the masters of their game … but, instead, seek out those they deem themselves capable of successfully challenging. Nondescript and in the middle of the pack … their talents, skills and, above all, performance not even significantly poor … they challenge other nobodies they feel they may best and, in doing so, boost the worthiness they fear they may not legitimately claim let alone that others might notice. Doomed to a destiny of insignificance, they seek not to challenge themselves but to prove themselves unsung heroes … martyrs … in their own lunchtimes, that they might look themselves in the mirror of a morning and think “I am better than those other nobodies … I am better than nothing” … and, ironically, proclaim “I am better than ‘no-one’.“

Beware them, therefore … for their best interests are not yours and their disarming charm a ruse — they are infiltrators … traitors … vigilantes … rogue assassins in the pay of no-one and for no cause. Their goal is to act as executioner and, to do so, they must first act as prosecutor, assemble a jury of the like minded or easily led and publicly try you for the crime of trespassing against others who asked not, themselves, to be defended. They are social justice warriors decrying perceivable injustice on behalf of the voicelessly defenceless who, by virtue of not being there to display their wounds or demand recompense, require robust rebuttal of the ‘politically incorrect’ in their stead by these unhailed saints in waiting.

Beware the modestly moral … true warriors are not shrinking violets who downplay their own prowess whilst shamelessly contributing to conflict but rather the calmly confident who simply state the facts as they see them whilst not shirking the fight when faced with its necessity and, though they may spar in practice of their skills, seek neither plaudits nor notches on a post for their victories.

Beware their blandishments, therefore, and, at the first sign of sanctimony, excise them from your entourage — for … having already praised you with their unrequisite presence … they will not hesitate to to bury you when, inevitably, you prove imperfect.

You know them, you’ve met them. They always mean only the best, never harm … always have only your best interests at heart and, when you … politely or otherwise … thank them for, but nevertheless decline, their concern … turn on you, assassinating your character, decrying your wilful obstinacy and unwillingness to learn from their insight and wisdom as evidence of your failing in Life, of your failing as a human being … of your inferiority … which they will superciliously mention vis a vis not themselves but some abstract every-evolved-man or woman … your failure to be Ganhdi or the Buddha … your lack of enlightenment … sufficient to hoist you with your own petard — which they only too kindly fashioned for you in advance from the fair-trade, organic, wheaten, wholemeal hair that was ethically and respectfully gathered from the combs of indigenous grandmothers by their good friends, Cressida and Tarquin, whilst integrating into the community in an undiscovered backwater off the poverty-tourism trail they were following on their ‘woke’ trustafarian gap-year working-holiday soujourn to help less techno-socially evolved cultures than their own remain all that they might be, could be, ought to be, should be … or from the hard-worn, cast-off, hand-me-down cloth of the downtrodden proletariat, or inversely oppressed white working classes.

Their ego thus stroked, they wish you ‘namaste’ … or, conversely, that your bleeding-heart libtard attitude result (not) in the rape of your neighbours’ teenage daughter [delete according to their taste] … and leave you to your (tragically Greek) fate — unless, unluckily, they view you as a lost soul and persist in their attempts to save you from yourself until … finally drained of all will to expend any more energy on the vampire … you accord them the ultimate accolade of ‘unfriending’ and/or ‘blocking’ them from your cocooned, bourgeois, First World echo chamber of privilege.


Trust not the ‘plain-talking’ either … their protestation of ‘telling it like it is’ barely even mere gossamer veil over boorish indifference to the lives of others or the indignities suffered beneath the hobnailed boots of their self-made entrepreneurial spirit … these working-class done-good heroes no less narcissistically self-serving … no less sociopathically sadistic … merely less refined in their self-validation to others’ cost — we may learn no more at their feet than that a brick with a slice of lemon wrapped around it is cheaper … and nastier … than a glass of champagne served with the caviar of lives spent in oceans of economically browbeaten sweat.


As for me … well …

It’s not that I don’t care whether you live or die in agony (screaming or otherwise) … I’ve a vengeful soul and rather hope that, if you deserve to, having made your bed, you l̶i̶e̶ die in it.

“Justice for all : Mercy for none” … that’s my motto

Okay, it isn’t really … but don’t expect me to be indiscriminately merciful — I believe in it for its own sake and for the benefit of my own soul (such as that may be) … but I’m not above taking Charlemagne’s approach of saving souls by converting people to his belief system at swordpoint [1] … and won’t sugar-coat it if I think you’re misguided.

If, when you open your mouth, what gushes out is complete and utter shit, I will not only point that fact out, but also elaborate … at length and in excruciating detail … upon why it is so — your argument is factually incorrect and/or logically inane and/or morally insupportable … so full of holes as to be Swiss cheese, as it were.

If you get the impression that I have an answer for everything and am always right, you are sadly deluded — unlike you, I’m not a lackwitted egotist and don’t have a burning urge to impress others with my superiority [2]. It isn’t that at all ... it’s that all you ever do is talk complete and utter shit — far from my always being right, you are simply always wrong.

So, get over yourself … shut the fuck up … and remember what your ex-partners said to you [4] … before I kick you so hard in the arse that you end up talking out of your mouth — believe me when I say “I’m sick to death of having to point out how pathetically ridiculous … how ridiculously pathetic … you are and there are far more important things I could be doing with my time than being obliged to deal with your wretchedly infantile behaviour.” [5]

It’s not me: it’s you — Life is like a toilet [6]: somebody has to clean it up and … unfortunately … I seem to be one of the few prepared to do the World a favour by applying the bleach to the shitstain that you are.


As ever, if you think this post was about you personally and individually … it almost certainly wasn’t … but you most assuredly should.


[1] You can’t help but admire his style.

[2] For me to engage in one-upmanship on your account, I would first have to regard you as a challenge, never mind a threat, and … as you don’t have an inferiority complex, but are simply inferior [3] … you are most certainly never going to be either.

[3] Not just to me, but to absolutely everyone — an embarrassment to the species, in fact.

[4] “It isn’t me, it’s you.”

[5] Like picking fluff out of my navel.

[6] What you get out of it depends upon what you put into it.

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