Books for Everyone!

February 2022

Diverse Diversity

Sir Winston Churchill once stated: “England and America are two countries separated by a common language.”

That language is, of course, English. There is the mother tongue, British English, and the mongrel tongue, American English. American English possesses regional dialects that rival those of British English, at least in terms of mutations from the “received pronunciation” of the accepted standard of speech that aficionados of the Queen’s English still esteem.

To speak with a Southern accent in the States does not mean to drawl, but to s-l-o-w d-o-w-n the delivery of the words, to a point where a listener, such as I, hailing from the Northeast (specifically New Jersey), yearns, however futilely, to rev up that language-engine by subtly moving her chin forward. The intent is to get that chit-chat ball rolling faster, or just rolling.

At times, the experience was nearly painful for me, at least it was during my initial years in the region of Washington, D.C., Maryland, and Virginia. I was newly out of New Jersey, still very much a teen, unaware of the differences in rates of speaking among Americans, and even less between Southerners and Northerners.

The genial Southern woman would begin to tell a story, and then, ten, or fifteen minutes later, she still hadn’t finished it. The point wasn’t to arrive at the end of the tale; the goal was the journey getting there, the pleasure trip of verbalization that did not seem to want to end.

In a similar vein, human beings are unique in their distinctive ways of looking at life, at the world around them. The viewpoint that makes me, me, is not necessarily the viewpoint that makes you, you. Purportedly, there used to be an atmosphere among strangers to allow for diverging differences of opinion. Despite the incessant publicized outcry against the incivility of conversation, there does still exist polite patois, at least there is where I live, out in the boonies.

Granted, the self-control is better practiced among some rednecks than among others. The hirsute hillbilly, living down the way, who built a revenge fence to torment the elitist neighbors, newly transplanted from the Bay Area (and not at all taking root): he’s talking loud and clear, not speaking in the twisted tongues of the typical liar known as The Politician.

Between two friends, an inherent lack of overlap in opinions and preferences is frequently a fundamental part of the chemistry that keeps them trusted associates. My finest friends and best moments with them involved satirical friction that kept our engines of amity, and trust, running quite smoothly. I saw previously unseen facets in the jewels of their natures. I was thereby granted the purest gift of friendship, the assurance that I could be myself around them.

Complaints about the uncivil society are profitably touted by the rabble-rouser attention-hounds who use controversy to bankroll a speaking tour, or even to mine parts of a profession. Those commonplace gripes have been exploited by the lurid media, in cahoots with the parasitic politicians who seek to even further divide voting blocs, people who just might coalesce under the umbrella of humanity.

The Divide-and-Conquer con-men and con-women can’t allow enemies to become friends! Like the dodo bird, The Minority Ruling Class must amplify their nasal voices, and puff up their stringy feathers into plumage of massive proportions.

The citizenry routinely gets put through the election wringer, and in many countries, all over the world. What’s even more hilarious is the fact that the Elites, huddling in their highly-policed enclaves of worthless confab, they’ve only recently found out that the Great Unwashed — in every nation researched, graphed, and documented — do not trust them! I wonder who paid bookoo bucks for that polling data?!

Around the globe, I have noticed, the workers of the world have, at long last, united in realizing that they’ve been had — most recently, by the cult of covid. A bloody insight finally led the citizen-bloodhound to sniff out the creeps, collecting cash as a result of crushing civil liberties. Most bludgeoned of all was the jabbed bloke whose body exposed him as a heretic when his healthy immune system reacted with sickness. His lymph nodes had proven unfaithful to the code of covid!

Perhaps it took a governmental con job of this magnitude to awaken masses of humanity to the charlatans in their midst. Just telling a person that he is being lied to, by a professional deceiver, when he wants to think well of an authority-figure, such a noble attempt can backfire in your face. The phrase, “I told you so”, came about because of the exasperated, frustrated, and unsuccessful efforts by who knows how many altruistic souls, wishing to wake up the sleeping person to the dangers he did not wish to see.

Telling a friend to call 9-1-1 when she refuses to see any peril to her life, it’s not a good experience. You must walk away and, then, pray.

Some of those awakened dozers will go right back to sleep. Some of them did not want to be roused, in the first place, from those forty winks that will turn into 400 siestas. There do exist specimens of Homo sapiens who will not face the truth, and who will attack you, verbally, emotionally, physically, if you try to waken them from a soporific sleep, especially as they repose in the hammocks of the social safety net.

Sometimes, speaking the truth is an act of valor, especially when corrupt cowards will punish any mouth that dares to utter the naked truth. We live in times when pretense sits upon shifting sands. A tsunami of facts and the unvarnished truth are headed the way of the career charlatan in arenas no longer graced by the veneer of respect and tradition.

It is during such times of uncertainty and transition that there are vultures, vultures everywhere!

Several years ago, I was listening to an online societal commentator expound upon the fact that life in the United Kingdom IS changing, despite the official public pronouncements, after the latest terrorist bombing that nothing has changed . . . in the free world of Great Britain. All is well. We will not be cowed. Go back to your lives, citizens. And non-citizens.

This media talking head was piqued that no one, at least no one of utmost importance and supreme authority, had listened to Him, the prognosticator of doom, and taken his strident advice. The ego preceded his strident advice, which was also sizable. This journalist had even written books and articles and blog posts about the coming end of the world as he knows it.

I opined that things hadn’t gotten bad enough yet in the UK, or in France, or in Germany, or in Spain, or in any nation of the EU, for those neglected and abandoned citizens to be able to do anything, other than try to make ends meet. The former Soviet-bloc countries, though, were getting a pretty fast clue as to the raw deals from the Brussels-crats.

Somehow, my terse assessment got me bashed. Without one call for moderation from the Moderator.

This slick Brit soothsayer might have been sincere. I wouldn’t know. He was earning 3-figures a pop from individual membership in an online club wherein persons of like mind could feel they were digitally congregating with others of like mind. I’d initially thought that I’d found a forum for a fair and frank discussion of serious subjects. All too soon I discovered that my mind was not of like mind with any of the other clubbers. A website devoted to the discussion of incivility, unfairness, and one-sidedness in discourse quickly became the A#1 example of all that it lambasted.

I was, quite frankly, treated very shabbily. Many times, I felt clubbed by the ether-sphere mateys over my iconoclastic ideas and points of view. I eventually went on my way, after having re-affirmed several of my long-held conclusions about the dynamics of The Group vs. The Individual.

Regardless of the political persuasion, emotional disposition, or intelligence level, the persons who engage in, and who prefer to engage in, group activity, sooner or later, toss aside those ethical niceties that an individual holds, and holds dear, come what may. The Groupie feels strangely empowered by the so-called support of others around her. The Individual could care less if anyone is around her; in fact, she vastly prefers to go it alone, to be alone.

This media societal forecaster spoke often, with grandiose podcast irritation, about the installation of those short, immoveable vertical posts in public areas, the type originally used on a ship or quay for mooring boats. He seemed to have become unmoored by the mere existence of those posts in any location on dry land.

I thought I’d heard him pronounce these things as “bollocks” when, in fact, the word, the spoken word, is bollards. In truth, what those venues truly need are some men with, um, balls.

Among other bones of contention separating this man and myself, there existed that common language, uncommonly separating us, he of the vigilant vehemence, and I, of the patient perception. My inputted statements on his website drew many laughs, only because, by that point in time, I was the butt of many jokes and rude attempts to stifle my opinion, if not completely silence me.

And I found it sadly insulting, that a group of individuals who appeared to pride themselves on objective attitudes had fallen so fast into superficial cliques, with petty and snide remarks regarding differing thoughts. If I’d wanted catty comments, I would have remained mired in the makeup blogo-sphere!

I’d wanted intriguing debate on current affairs, perhaps even historic ones. Not on the Internet!

Unlike just about everyone else posting on that electronic billboard of egotism, I went by my real name. I did not mask my genuine self. I’ve nothing to hide. Which is probably why I did not, and never will, fit into the online world of anonymous personas, pitching curve balls in a game that is never quite named, or identified. It wasn’t a case of dark web, just dark shadows.

Those two countries that are separated by one common language, they can only become hostilely more separated when one nation blames the other for the academicians who are all to blame for every ill in society. In America, the British intellectuals are blamed for achieving the death of just about all of the citizenry there, and elsewhere. In Great Britain, the American think-tankers, university professors, do-gooder weirdos and sex-freaks, and a D-F-level actress are blamed for exporting their boring lunacies to the ivory towers and societal decay of Britannia.

The foul air of falsity, and the morons in the miasma of London; as well as the polluted pompous pharisees of metropolitan America are all to be excoriated for living off of the humble folk of the nation, for centuries. The idiots of the globalist vacuum cleaners and slush funds, known as Foundations and Trusts and Symposiums and Forums and whatever other freak shows they’ve got going for their giga-bitcoin gig:

they’ve replaced the dynastic ruling families who once upon a time contrived to rule for millennia; and who didn’t care one whit about the millions of poor slobs under their dominion.

Those dynastic families did not rule for millennia.

Wilhelm II, the last German emperor, reigned from 15 June 1888 until his abdication on 9 November 1918, after having fostered the climate leading to the Great War. The Great War was re-named World War I when those twenty years after the Treaty of Versailles proved the verity of this statement by Maréchal Foch:

« Ce n’est pas la paix. C’est un armistice pour vingt ans. » This is not peace. It’s an armistice for twenty years.

In 1925, German general Paul von Hindenburg took the reins of power in Germany. He died in 1934, but not before being betrayed by his own son who manipulated and lied to this ailing man to appoint Adolf Hitler as Chancellor in 1933.

When your own flesh and blood sticks the dagger in your back, for money, aggrandizement, and fame, there’s not much left of that dynasty, is there?

In 1918, Czar Nicholas II, his wife Alexandra (grand-daughter of Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom) and their five children were executed by their Bolshevik captors in the basement of a house in Yekaterinburg, Russia. The last monarch of the Romanov dynasty and his family were wiped out by the revolutionaries to show that there would be no going back to government-by-czar. After an 80-year break from an emperor, the former Soviet Union nation of Russia received the ruling class of a new Czar, Vladimir Putin.

Some things never change. The scum that floats to the top of the hearty societal soup must be skimmed off every once in a while, give or take 100 years.

Those two languages, British English and American English, must stay respectfully separated so that their respective nations stay respectful. I am pleased as punch about that balance of linguistic powers. Diversity in language truly is our strength.