Dear diary,
People need to learn to love their jail guards. Are your jail guards frightening, threatening? Then simply fall in love with them. Cuz a lover may send you chocolates, sometimes even roses. Wouldn’t you rather have the jail guards winking at you and waving their pinkie finger at you when they pass your cell, instead of intentionally making an annoying racket by knocking their rifle against your cell’s metal bars?
So smarty-pants academics have a problem with THE STATE (when announcing the title of this address, I shouted that key phrase just like so, in all capital letters — henceforward, in this transcript, I will type it normally, in lowercase, but I beg you to imagine that it is no less ominously distinct): these smarty-pants academics say that the state has a tendency to become tyrannical. But I myself say: Let us favor the state, especially when it turns tyrannical. Here is my reasoning:
A stateless person is killed by a pack of wolves. In contradistinction, a member of a state usually possesses the right to a cell. The worst-case scenario is that your jail guard does not requite your love; but surely you can live without chocolates and roses. Therefore, the state is the way to go.
Plus, consider that a tyranny is wicked only for those who oppose it. We disparage tyrannical states and their so-called brutal dictators, because we view them from the perspective of those who are governed. But let us instead, before judging them, attempt to walk a kilo or two in the spiked boots of a tyrant:
Imagine being in the inner circle of, say, Evil King Alpha, or Evil King Omega. Instead of suffering their wrath, you’d get to suggest ways to inflict such wrath. “Why are we using rubber bullets on the protesters? That’s a waste of good material, which could be better utilized in the manufacturing of milk-bottle nipples,” you might say, in the sinister meeting of the heads of state; “let us therefore switch to employing small nuke bombs against any civilian who dares to peacefully assemble.” And your fellow statesmen and stateswomen would answer you in chorus: “They are not called ‘protesters’ they are called ‘terrorists’.” And you’d be treated as their equal — note that they only sternly corrected your wording instead of shooting your face with a tear-gas canister: this demonstrates the superiority of mental admonishment over physical abuse.
Also it’s better to be employed as a jail guard oneself than to rot as one of the jailed. This is a mistake that I see people committing all too often: they choose to be jailed, rather than to jail. What are they thinking!? I can only offer you the remedy:
If your jail sentence has an expiration date, look into becoming a prison guard once you’re free. After being released from your cell, just think how much more fun it’ll be to walk the hallways between all the cells, clanging your rifle against the metal bars to make sure no one can rest, and winking occasionally at a lover or confidante. It’s SO much more enjoyable to be outside of the cell than inside. For, on the inside, your movement is limited — you feel cramped, and there’s no one to push around, other than your cellmate, who’s usually bigger than you and thus legally owns the right to push you around. But in the free part of the jail is a long hallway that echoes as you walk thru it: you step measuredly and with confidence, and this hallway runs betwixt and throughout all the cells; it’s as if you’re a zookeeper, and the inmates are your animals.
Also I recommend becoming the teacher of a class, rather than one of the students. If you’re a student, you must sit in your desk and listen: the teacher is wrong about everything, yet you must pretend that the teacher is right — on the other hand, if you yourself are in the position of authority, you can say:
“Give ear, O class, while I pose to you this question: What size bible does the Supreme Leader prefer to wield?”
And nobody raises a hand, thus indicating that no one in the class wishes at present to receive a dressing-down. So you call upon a specific student yourself; which act gives you satisfaction, as you can choose a student whose appearance or attitude annoys you, like that boy named Adam in row 1:
“Adam,” you yell, “obey my commandment and answer my question. Which size bible does our Ruler, from great heights, enjoy dropping on sinners?”
And Adam answers, “Triple extra large.”
Here you reflect that he’s not wrong. But this is the upshot of being a teacher — since you feel inclined to smack him around a bit, you can simply do so: follow your instinct; there is no need to wait for him to prove that he actually deserves to be chastised; the fact that no one can stop you from administering humiliation indicates your natural right to pitch into him:
“Adam,” you yell, “pick up your belongings and leave my classroom this instant. There are several battalions of guards waiting in the hallway; they shall escort you to jail.”
Yet, before Adam has time to gather his textbooks, you walk forth and stand before him with your measuring rod in your fist. You lift up the rod, pause for a moment with your arm held high and your eyes wide with rage; then slam down the measuring rod on the desk, and smite it, so that a large crack forms across its surface. (Ideally, after a few weeks of teaching, all of the desktops in your classroom will boast countless cracks.)
No comments:
Post a Comment