A gang or cabal of humans recently killed several others with whom they were not acquainted because they thought differently. Not only did these poor schnooks think differently from the gang, they drew and published pictures of Muhammad Ali that they should not have drawn to begin with, the pictures were also disrespectful, and the killers thought that killing the people responsible for the images would make them feel better.
Elijah Muhammad is such a big deal to these guys that he’s totally holy and serious and nobody should ever laugh at him. I think organized religions are always crazy eventually, and still some are more compatible with rationality than others. I can’t help thinking, and I’ve tried not thinking it, that outrage and righteousness like that come out of fear that actually the idea you’ve been giving your attention to all these years is horseshit, that all you think you know was filtered by many before you and is just a story anyway. Being that wrong would be hard to get used to, and maybe anybody who says differently from the way I know deserves to die because thinking any other way is so awful for me to think about.
I could speculate about weak-assed gods and the goofiness inherent in venerating anybody. Maybe next week.
Rather than face the truth they can’t face, these lost souls opted for murder, always an option, I suppose. Maybe most people are killed for an idea, sometimes just the idea that the money in your wallet will help me feel better somehow, will make me a little happy, or another billion or two will make me feel secure at last and only a few people died, none of whom was even a Facebook friend.
You readers think, too. Yes you do, you’re doing it now. Keep an eye on that. One Gentle Reader wrote not long ago about my essay on Sid Lewis, declaring that she could never feel safe or comfortable around me again. Chico’s not a big place, and she’s in for some awkward moments.
In regard to the girl Sid allegedly masturbated in front of, she says, “. . . your article erases this girl’s existence and experience.” How could that possibly be true? Have you ever read something that erased your existence? The girl would surely at least have to read it herself, unless the column put a hex or something on her, which was not my intention.
I just think our individual experiences are within our individual control. If I can’t control my thoughts, the rest doesn’t matter. That goes for you, too. My Gentle Reader says she’s been traumatized, and I don’t doubt it for a minute—she sounds traumatized to me.
My Gentle Reader and the guys in Paris who killed all those people at Charlie Hebdo sound similar to me because they’re ruled by their minds and unhappy about it. It sucks to be them.