Have you ever had a potentially stimulating conversation about the changing international order brought to an end by the words “it sure is interesting times”? If not, then you’re the reason Trump won. Nothing to do with me, it’s all because of your thoughts.
If everyone sincerely knew the truth, then the overwhelming majority would likely throw ourselves from the highest cliff, in the full knowledge that this desperate attempt will do nothing to avoid reality’s vast chasm of black, empty futility. Or perhaps everyone does know about the plain stupidity behind the veil of existence, which would make sense of why we do everything we do. If you doubt the universe’s absurdity, wait until you throw yourself off a cliff after a prolonged self-battle only to land unharmed on top of the pile of already thrown corpses too weak to confront their existential pointlessness, but quick enough in realising their cosmically pathetic existence to throw themselves off first. Or give a copy of Ulysses to an isolated Amazonian tribe only for them to ritually fart in the preface written by a sentimental cardiganed scholar who has never been to Ireland in their long, pointless life, before a squadron of bulldozers flattens the tribe and plants a multi-story McDonald’s on top of their quaint, sacred corpses. Then try and claim the universe means anything.
More than ever, the need for reminders of our need to remember our existing values is crucial for the pursuit of undetailed principles. While a sex pest-turned-TV-star defines the daily news agenda by tweeting on the toilet, more than ever we need to remember that truth is not the playground toy of insecure masculinity, but the vanguard of torturous existential terror. If Trump’s tweets are the faeces thrown at the caged proverbial monkeys surrounding him, then the US’ subconsciously harboured racial resentment is the toilet paper. If we are to protect our children from the faeces-throwing of our elected leaders, then more than ever we need to remember that children are tiny miniature people who will one day be regular-sized people. Future regular-sized people must be allowed to know the reassuring comfort of reading a blog post about how we can change the world by reading blog posts, and not worry about having faeces thrown at them by the people we gave all the power to. We must remember more than ever the importance of free journalism which is susceptible only to the will of transnational stockholders and online advertising revenue, and not the turbulent waters of murky political pondlife. Else, this pond may grow into an ocean, where fascism lies at the bottom of the coastal shelves of ideology.
We must stand our ground by holding open, honest discussions with people who wear Doc Martens for reasons different to us, and remember that despite their awkward desire for racial apocalypse and ethnic cleansing, they too once pissed in their pants in school, and they too have those same biological functions which constitute our organs and, by extension, existence as regular, faeces-producing people. If they slap you for suggesting that not all black people feast on the bullet ridden corpses of hardworking police officers, then you should turn the other cheek. When they scratch a swastika into the other one and leave a rotting pigeon in your letterbox, do not prevent them. This is but one battle in the war. It is the first stages of the hunt for harmony. The hunt for harmony must be carried out with spears crafted from the tree of justice, or else we risk reducing ourselves to the efficient force of automated metal bullet machines. It may have been a bullet that killed Hitler, but it is also the bullet which brings heroin into schools and hate into the hearts of our tiny people. Without tiny people, we will merely be regular sized people with no tiny burdens holding us back from a life of Nazi killing. Without Nazis, we will never be able to educate tiny people about the beautiful diversity of adult racial hatred. Liberals divide between those who accommodate genocidal Doc Marten-wearing skinheads and those who have never met a Nazi or punched anyone, but still support punching Nazis. As this division widens, politicians cannot afford to be regular or passive. They must listen to philosophers and gardeners on what both think of the other’s profession, and more importantly what they think of punching people with Doc Martens. More than ever we must hold firm.
Consensus building is a cornerstone of political maturity. If we forget what it means to build consensus, then we may lose our right to believe that people we have never met already agree with us. More than ever, this must be defended, or else we risk losing those values which are dear to the preservation of passivity. Without values, this world will become merely a sun-orbiting sphere habiting lifeforms and landscapes. More than ever, our basic, rugged humanity must become intimate with the bone structure of hate, facial hair and all. As we peer closer into its wispy, spacious moustache, we cannot afford to retreat to our acne-free comfort zones. When hate rides the wave of global disillusionment, we cannot afford to waste time articulating and understanding the structural character of our violent grievances, more than ever we need to focus on immaterial platitudes.
Trump, Brexit, Le Pen, and Wilders can never touch our intellect or our bloodthirsty love of beauty, unless they have guns. Guns can kill anything. Even narratives. That’s why we need guns more than ever. Without guns, narrative tyranny will never last, and we must chase the narrative like we chase the dragon.