News of the Intellectually Challenged
Saturday, 17th October 1998DENVER, COLORADO [NotS]
Okay, This News of the Stoopid is actually the result of a request. Sort of. Usually, I don’t take requests, but I’ve been thinking about this idiotic issue for years anyway. So, here it is…
Political correction.
I know, I know: you think it’s called ‘political correctness’, but that just sounds wrong to me. There’s something about the term ‘political correction’ that just sounds better somehow. Like, maybe, a correction in politics might just be a good thing…
But this isn’t really about that. In fact, I’m not entirely certain what’s ‘politically correct’ about ‘politically correct’ terminology. I mean, think about it: the entire concept of political correction is saying things in an inoffensive way. When in hell were politics ever nice? Did I miss something? I thought politics were all about taxes, and blowing up countries full of technologically underdeveloped brownish people. Maybe not. I dunno.
Anyway, whatever the origin of this idiocy was, it’s irrelevant now. At this point, what I’m concerned about is the stoopidity that homosapiens seem to have backed themselves into with this goofy practise. I mean, think about it: how much of the world has become politically correct all of a sudden? What terms, regardless how easily understood and appropriate, have been replaced by these verbose little subchapters we’re calling monikers these days? And when the hell did this happen?
I’ll deal with this thing one at a time…
Servers. Not the big computers on which websites are stored, but those little people who occasionally remember to bring you more coffee. Those androgynous things. What’s a server? Is it male or female? Could be anything; don’t ask. We used to call them waiters [those which wait], until we suddenly got waitresses [those which also wait, but are female, damnit]. Now we have servers. Those which serve. Okay. My question: how long until the servers want to be male servers and female servers? Then what will we have? Probably serveronis and serveritas. I wouldn’t be surprised.
Flight attendants. I used to be a flight attendant. Then the plane landed. I’d attended the flight. I was a flight attendant. They’ll let anyone be a flight attendant these days. There I was, attending the flight, trying to get the stewardess to bring me a White Russian at thirty-five thousand feet. This term really needs to be rethought.
Sanitation engineer. Okay, let’s have janitors, known across the galaxy as uneducated labourers, be known as sanitation engineers. Hey Doc: the wastebasket’s full again; please empty it on the way to that lecture you’re giving at MIT on the proper disposal of bananaberry HazMat, ‘kay?
Vertically challenged. Whatever. You’re short. Catch the song? You’ve got no reason to live. Now beat it you bloody munchkin.
Handicapable. Okay, I’ll buy that. Capable. Let’s wheel your handicapable if legless husk into a telemarketing boilerroom and see about getting the funding to those of us with real problems.
Homeless. Y’know, even before the term ‘bum’ came along, we had wonderfully colourful words, like ‘vagrant’ and ‘transient’. But now, with all these intellectually challenged losers out there, we’ve devolved down to ‘homeless’. Know what’s homeless these days? The Oxford English Dictionary, that’s what. No one wants to be anywhere near the damned thing.
Mixologist. What was wrong with being a barkeep? What the hell is mixology?
Isn’t a mixologist basically a serveroni? Or is it more ike a flight attendant who isn’t attending a flight? Anyway, the mixologists can drop me off a scotch & soda on their ways to MIT to hear about the proper disposal of bananaberry HazMat.
Police action. Maybe. Judging by the police actions of Los Angeles, I can sorta see how being an LAPD cop and launching a war against defenceless brownish people could get confused with each other.
Lead vocals. Huh? Oh: the singer. Right. The guy who gets all the chicks and makes fun of the lead percussionist with the lead guitarist and the lead rhythmicist. Gotcha.
Illustrationist. This is nearly as bad as the overly cute ‘artiste’, which is a lot like an artist, but with more attitude than talent. Two snaps and a whoop, Buttercup.
Novelist. I’m not entirely certain what the hell a novelist does. Apparently it’s some sort of writer. To me, it sounds more like a trendsetter, which sounds like something the artistes and lead vocalists would be better suited for.
Sales representative. Apparently, someone didn’t like the term ‘peddler’ anymore.
Professional student. Yeah. See Transient.
Administrative assistant. Okay, whatever. Sounds wicked, but my coffeechick would get jealous, okay?
Chief Executive Officer. Man…as long as the boss doesn’t find out we’ve got one of those…
Health Care Professionals, Personal Care Providers, and Paramedical Specialists. Nurses without degrees. You’re babysitters, okay? You don’t get to touch me.
Website Development Expert. Why lie: I’m a hacker who depends heavily on the influence of Dennis Miller, Denis Leary, and quite possibly, Dennis the Menace.
I could go on, finding stoopid euphemisms, dissecting them down to reality, and generally ensuring that I’m left with zero employed friends. But what’s the point. The simple message: it’s time to stop worrying so damned much about who we might insult with the real world and maybe focus, instead, on getting these people to do their jobs without having to assure themselves that they’re more globally important than they really are. I mean, I don’t wanna go off on a discourse here, but who really gives an all-expense-paid one-way ticket to Malebolgian discomfort what vocational, characteristic, and incidental nomenclature is utilised by which to describe these persons’ pre-mortem conditions? We’ve got dietal processing agents interfacing with personal pleasure providers, subadult munitions quality control agents and freelance pharmacists, as well as heirloom aggregation representatives who really need to share some quality time with our mandate enforcement engineers, and all we can brainstorm to accomplish is to share our challenges with our congressional liaisons, who might extend them to the lead vocalist of the domicile–hopefully before the biosphere is terminated by extramerican international relations utensils.
It’s time to drop the pretense. That which we call a rose, by any other name, would be a crimsonhued vegetamerican romantic device.
That’s just my opinion; I could be incorrect.
–Gremlin