Political Correctness In A World Gone Mad

If there is one thing that I find more disturbing than seeing a truck load of lepers crash into a porridge factory, it’s the degree of political correctness that we have to endure every single waking moment of every single day of our intellectually-castrated lives. I mean, what is it with these unhappy little politically correct frilly pink blouse wearing powder-puffs that they have nothing better to do than to go out of their way just to make life impossible for anyone and everyone who isn’t in someway a defective malfunct?

So here’s the thing, I don’t need any namby pamby wheel-chair bound tree-hugging foreign-food-eating political correctophiles telling me what I can and can’t say and when I can and can’t say it.


And I don’t need any of your delicate, non-gendered, totally platonic hand-holding to help guide me to some enlightenment about how to ‘say it like it is’ without hurting someone’s oh-so-temperamental feelings. If people need to be told something, then they need to be told! Damn their feelings! It’s not some old women’s tatter guild that I’m addressing here. You people need to grow some balls and get over yourselves!!!

So I guess it’s kind of obvious by now that I think this whole political correctness nonsense is a complete load of bunk!!!

So what am I talking about here? What is it that has got me so riled? Well I’ll explain-

Imagine what it would be like boarding the plane to return home after a relaxing vacation in Sydney Australia. Okay, you’ve just spent a week in the iconic city, taking in its urban splendour and diverse culture. After all, you’re a person of sophistication, and being so, you enjoyed Sydney's many great offerings – you visited both Hoyts and Village cinemas, dined in Chinatown and shopped at Myers. But now you’re looking forward to getting home and drinking your Duty Free bottle of Italian Spumante because you’re a classy kind of individual.

Anyway, as you board the plane you noticed that the Captain is of Pakistani descent. Not that this is a problem or anything – I mean, you like the game of cricket. And you’re pretty sure that employing pilots from third world countries helps the airline keep its ticket prices down – and you’re all for that too. But you want to demonstrate your acceptance of diversity and culture in a politically correct way – so you attempt to engage in small talk with him.

You ask, “Where are you from?”
“Lahore,” he replies.
“La what?! Is that French or something?”
“Lahore, it’s a city in Pakistan.”
“Oh, okay [Phew! That could’ve been awkward]. And did you do your flight training over there or here in Australia?”
“Here in Australia.”
“Thank God for that – I mean, they train you to miss the buildings over here don’t they?” 
 

So it becomes quite obvious to you as the two burly security guards haul you back to the airport terminal that political correct pilots from Lahore in Pakistan do not have a sense of humour. But then, if all they’ve got is a curry recipe, a hacky sack and an album containing photos of all their relatives who have blown themselves up (“and here’s one of Afzul taken outside the embassy a week before that terrible incident…”); then it’s hardly surprising that they’re going to be a little temperamental when someone criticizes the expertise of your national aviation industry.

IT WAS A JOKE YOU MORON!!!!!

Notwithstanding that when they finally allow you to board the next plane and you find out that the Captain on that one is from Dublin, you don’t say a word.

And that’s what political correctness does to you in the end – it silences you and makes you afraid. ‘I can’t speak, I might upset someone’. That ugly woman on the bus, if you don’t look at her and smile she’ll blame you for the way she looks. That guy in the wheel chair, if you don’t slam the door in his face he’ll accuse you of treating him like a cripple. That busker on the sidewalk, if you only toss him a couple of silver coins he’ll keep playing House of the Rising Sun.

And who cares about your feelings? Who cares that you have to look at ugly people, pretend that the wheelchair didn’t run over your foot, and waste good coinage just to hear a song that was written and recorded before you were even born? How come, in this God-forsaken ‘don’t make me cry or someone’s gonna kick your arse’ politically correct planet of ours, your feelings don’t seem to count too?

Well I decree that I’m no longer buying it. So to all the pain-in-the-proverbial self-styled tolerance monitors; you can take your politically correct fancy pancy happiness pills and swallow them down with a warm cup of ‘Harden the F##k Up!’ I’m over it!!!!


That’s what I think… And usually I’m right.