Stark Demand For Intelligent Drones.

The word 'gatekeeping' is the new 'wheelhouse' amongst the throngs of feral influencers with mindlessly narrowed diction.  One of the first things I was unfortunate enough to scroll on my Insta feed this morning was the professional douchebag anti-hero from Milkstreet Chris  Kimball.  I thought 'OK, fair play for me trying to start my day exposing myself to the unsolicited opinions of others, but at least I have the comments.'

The comments is where things started to unravel for me.  They always give you a clue when the first thing you read in a comment is a response to a criticism that is nowhere in the comments.  Like the counter-bots jumbped the guns on the bots-primary and counter-commented before the critical comments were even posted and they do it seven times in a row.  Seven times the word 'gatekeeping' comes up in the comments to defend this dude from something no one seems to be accusing him of, but there is an obvious underlying insecurity that such a criticism is lurking somewhere and warrants some form of full-frontal counter-measure. FFS. Everyone has their limits.

First. People are not hating on Chris Kimbell because they are 'gatekeeping' some backwater peasant-trash 'ethnic' recipe you sweet delicate creature-bots of the word-of-the-day comments.  They are hating on Chris Kimbell because he turns being a precious condescending supercilious uppity cunt-face into a professional on-camera career and applauded endlessly they should be for doing such a service. 

Second. It couldn't concern me in the least what the recipe was, but the fact that there is a troupe of at-the-ready digital defenders leaping to the defense of a person whose personality orbits around a highly practiced brand of egotistically nuanced bullying just smacked me as predictably suspicious.   Is there a store somewhere that people like Taylor Swift can buy this shit. It is fucking nauseating.You knew what these people were like when they were young. You knew what they would grow into.  There is no cause for surprise now.

Unearned Returns.

Today I found myself sitting in an almost blindingly excruciating CLE. Even though it was remote and I could put it on mute and listen to Cabaret Voltaire at any time I was feeling like a masochist. I must have been naughty or something and listening to the meandering babbling must be my punishment or reprogramming nonetheless for some crime against the meta-state.

The CLE was on mediation or something. The lady looked like she was in a nineties indie band. The camera was stationary, the view cropped yet there was still a bewildering amount of hand gestures for a meeting where 1100 people left the room upon sign-in. I must have been very naughty.

Someone didn't ask me and double-booked me into another meeting so the bassist for Hugo Largo is going to have to go on about Equity Based Dispute Resolution without me.  The paranoid half of me thinks that this incessant barrage of meeting and obligations is some way of punishing those of us still working from home/The Amalfi Coast.  The petty-ass dick-head oppression of HR comes to us all.

Lessons In The Quietest Of Certitudes.

 

If there was any possible way I could have extruded withering judgment and unbridled condemnation with my very fucking eyes I would have.  There was this thing standing behind my building in an ill-fitting camelhair coat (in July) and I could have looked past that if her hand wasn't dangling onto a leash which was connected to a doberman puppy with newly cropped and bandged ears.  I thought I might have been transported back in time to some era where visibly displaying evidence of animal neglect was acceptable.

Here I was I card carrying member of PETA and their local animal action force staring at a gaping landscape of animal abuse.  If our societies complete enslavement to the woke mob didn't promise immediate cancellation I would not have hesitated to beat down that tiny Asian bitch with the nearest piece of discarded mid-century modern I could have dragged out of the adjacent dumpster, but I resisted my most human of urges and walked away (like Rene in the song), but there was a haze of scarlet rage blanketing my vision.

I calmly took the service elevator up one flight of stairs and contacted building security.  She can take her mutilated fucking dog and go stand someplace else.