Tweet Away, Ye Morons by Taki Theodoracopulos
October 27, 2011
FORT WORTH, TEXAS—To the best state in the Union for the annual John Randolph Club meeting of true conservatives, hip, hip. No posturing peacocks spouting gibberish learned at university diversity courses here, but witty, juicy, intelligent criticisms of today’s cultural sewer and the part liberals and Christendom’s enemies play in destroying our society. “I disagree with everything you have been saying and doing, you atheists, liberals, diversity freaks and multiculturalists, and I will fight to the death against your right to say it and do it” was the common thread which united us few, us happy few, us drunken few by the time the three-day conference was over.
The even better news: Miss Teresa Mull, a blonde 22-year-old Texan beauty, approached me with her two brothers after I finished moderating the last debate and challenged me to take her to a nightclub. The bad news: Her two brothers are tall, young, very good-looking, and one of them does MMA, which means mixed martial arts, which means no-holds-barred fighting to the finish. So I took all three, along with Captain Chris Myers and Major Mike of the United States Marines, and made a night of it. Yes, I plan to see Miss Teresa again when she comes to New York, and why not? I’m only 53 years older than she is. So what? And another thing. The days and sleepless nights I spent pining for the Speccie’s deputy editor are over and done with. Finished. Gone. Kaput.
The conference’s theme was Christendom and her enemies, and I was the opening speaker on Friday evening, fresh off the airplane and full of venom as never before. I spoke in graphic detail about certain atheists and their imminent divine punishment while some in the audience visibly flinched. That is what is so good about the spoken word. Once it’s out there, only the police can do something about it, but Texan cops had other things to worry about, especially in south Dallas, where our black cousins are killing each other in record numbers over drugs. But the thought police are everywhere, especially in Merrie Olde England, where had I said what I said in Texas I’d most likely be back in Pentonville by now. Such are the joys of freedom under political correctness. Until the Brits smarten up and tell the diversity Nazis where to get off, I’ll take Texas.
Not everything is hunky-dory in the Home of the Brave, especially when traveling. Never have I heard such inane comments as when my Noo Yawk neighbors on the flight down began a spirited conversation over…movies. Americans, and Brits alas, no longer travel with a book, but with a black contraption they hold in their hand and press once in a while. When these two extremely stupid women were not exulting over some tongue-tied TV moron with lots of “Oh my Gods,” they were pressing their little black boxes and—if that is possible—looking even stupider while silent. People nowadays have this vacuous, opaque look in their faces, their brains fried from too much BlackBerry and TV. Facebook, which Zuckerberg stole from the twins, must be the world’s most insidious invention. Telling someone far away what a hamburger feels like when chewed is putrid thinking at its worst. Apparently there are people who live their lives online or through Twitter and never have any face-to-face contact.
This obviously is why the zombies who run Hollywood are producing so many zombie movies. Everyone has turned into gadget zombies. They are also self-aggrandizing zombies, relentlessly pushing buttons to tell people they’ve never met—nor are likely to ever meet—their intimate thoughts about Brad Pitt. I suppose this is done to satisfy the Me Generation’s gigantic ego. I find nothing more depressing than seeing people absorbed by a gadget while totally ignoring their surroundings. But I guess this is what the modern world is going to be from now on, which makes me so happy to be old.
These modern bums will never feel memory’s distilling process and nostalgia’s beauty. The awkward, painful torsions of adolescence, the palimpsest of the past. The yearning to recapture a woman’s scent from long ago, the realization that desire is at times more satisfying than getting. The ache of first love, the butterflies in the stomach, the dry mouth. The shyness. All these the iPad generation will never experience, never feel. No, all these things disappear behind the tiny screen of Mr. Jobs, now strategizing ways to have the angels better communicate in heaven. I am lucky to have lived a normal life, like billions of other people, and to have never used one of these contraptions except for an old mobile when I’m on board my boat. And even that makes me feel slightly soiled. Tweet away, morons.