I beg your pardon? Whatever do you mean? Me? Little old me? Hardly. It’s a contentious issue, the likes of which I don’t normally tackle. I’m ever so afraid of upsetting the rich elite high above my station because they actually own my station. Heck, a quick clickety-click of their fingers and I’m doomed. One must careful so as not to upset the posh bastards with their bejewelled crowns and distinct lack of genitalia. Oh no, the consequences would be dire. Their army of lab grown designer super-children would be after me. And we can’t be having all that trouble now, can we?
The elite often look down on commoners like myself. We are their peasants and we do their bidding. Awful people. The type of people who have titles, butlers and strange musical instruments from far off lands their ancestors wrongly conquered and enslaved. People with strange British accents, one of two types of accents the Americans think all British people have. The other being 19th century Cockney. But have I dared to walk across the volcanic land betwixt our berths? Have I turned on the world I know, and ventured over to the world of champagne pools and bikini winters?
I don’t talk funny. I talk in a regular fashion using the standard regular vocabulary of this part of England. Normal state education. Pacifist, unlike the war-mongering elitist regime. I don’t shop at organic supermarkets, which is all a scam, by the way. Just want your money. Better off growing your own food. I don’t know the first names of the employees of the places I frequent. Although I do after I’ve read the receipt. I don’t own fancy clothing. All my stuff was bought at Ikea, not reclaimed from a salvaged shipwreck on the beaches of a war torn land, salvaged by natives I have no respect for. Alcohol costs me a pittance from the off-license and has not been stewing for 100 years in southern France. I don’t know what a dinner party is and I don’t want to know. Politics annoys me. I’m not afraid to get dirt under my fingernails. If I had any. I belong to good old-fashioned Roman Catholicism and I can only speak one language because we only speak one language here. We’re not in France, why do I need to know French? And I have real books! Not some idiocy by a 17th century aristocrat who keeps throwing intellectual junk in my face!
Am I elitist? Like hell I am! I’m a real boy! I’m not made of wood! I’m made of flesh! Flabby, God-awful flesh! I’m flawed and not perfect and that’s what makes me human! You can throw all the sherry in the world at me Mr. Elitist, but I don’t give a hoot! You can’t break me down! Or any of us normal people! We’ll fight our corner to the bitter end! That is what anarchy was created for!
TO REINSTATE THE HUMAN IN HUMANITY!
The Friday Bonus Question:
Plucked from the basement of the internet, a bewildering real question that defies logic and an answer, here for you to ponder:
How do I get my credit card out of my computer?
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The Indelible Life of Me
New Post Every Sunday
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Hark Around the Words
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