#no country for old men is philosophically bankrupt

[goat-boy-sounds]

I have a parasocial hatred for the coen brothers and frances mcdormand. learning the development history of nomadland is like the skeleton key to figuring out their entire condescending faux-middle-class-americana filmography

[marginalgloss]

notions of conduct

‘…It was Burton, I think,’ he said some minutes later, ‘who observed that there were men who sucked nothing but poison from books. And who has not met youths and even maidens with ludicrous ideas of what is the thing for persons of spirit, and with permanently distorted notions of conduct that is acceptable and conduct that is not? Yet may not authors be even more poisonous?’

Some three years after I started, I am finally reaching the end of Patrick O'Brian's best-known series of historical novels. Even now, far from the beginning, I feel confident in claiming that The Yellow Admiral is the weakest in the series so far. I had mixed feelings about Clarissa Oakes for related reasons — principally the lack of direction — but it gives me no joy to say that this book is where the series really starts to show its age. With the best of his work there’s a sense of settling into a sort of comfortable groove, like listening to a favourite piece of music performed well, or sinking into an old armchair on a rainy evening. But nothing here sits easily.   

The story is sketchy to the point of being barely extant. The war against Napoleon seems to be coming to an end, and for much of the book Jack Aubrey is plagued by a couple of great anxieties. He's afraid he will be made bankrupt, due to unexpected penalties associated with illegally capturing slave ships in the previous book. He is also worried that for political reasons at the end of his career he will be made a 'yellow' admiral, which is a covert form of disgrace – a promotion to a leadership role ‘without distinction of squadron’. There's a lot of other stuff going on — most notably, the promise of another privateer mission to South America — but for the most part this is a strange sort of in-betweener novel. 

Some of it is very out of character. A great many words in the first half are expended on enclosure (or 'inclosure', as O'Brian insists on spelling it). The widespread adoption of enclosure was perhaps the most significant change ever made to the landscape of Britain. It refers to the process of fencing off areas of common land, and turning it into strips of smallholdings assigned to individuals. The old commons were open to all and could be used for grazing, hunting and gathering; a tenant forced to trade access to commons in exchange for a few small pieces of private land might see an increase in the assets on his theoretical balance sheet, but they might also see a great nearing of the horizon of the opportunities afforded to them.  

The economics and history of enclosure are complex, and my understanding is limited to what I remember from school. But the author’s dedication to pursuing it so doggedly here seems out of character, especially considering that for the most part these books have given a great deal of leeway to the political issues of the day. Politics is only usually brought up as a matter for idle philosophical speculation — usually by Stephen, in the comfortable confines of the cabin or the gun-room. 

Enclosure has serious, active consequences for Jack and his tenants, but for me the question still remains: why are we only picking up on this now? Were a reader to encounter it for the first time in this book they might think it an invention of the nineteenth century. In fact, enclosure had been going on in fits and starts for hundreds of years in England; it’s scarcely conceivable that Stephen Maturin would need to have it explained to him, as he does here. It seems a strange topic to choose as representative of the age. 

As it stands, enclosure becomes a useful hobby-horse in this book. It’s hard to feel that O’Brian actually cares very much for the consequences to the individual smallholder here. Rather, the question of whether Aubrey's local common should be enclosed makes for a diverting exercise in the novel’s own libertarian philosophies. There is something unashamedly pastoral in this vision of a free and open corner of England, largely unaffected by government interference. At first it seems ironic that the only way this can be defended is by Aubrey effectively invoking his rights as Lord of the Manor; but I would suggest this is an indication that the novel's sympathies lie with a much older model of government. It is feudal, or as good as. Perhaps this oughtn't to be surprising – by this time we should know well that democracy doesn't come out of these novels looking well:

‘Everyone knows that on a large scale democracy is pernicious nonsense – a country or even a county cannot be run by a self-seeking parcel of tub-thumping politicians working on popular emotion, rousing the mob. Even at Brooks’s, which is a hotbed of democracy, the place is in fact run by the managers and those that don’t like it may either do the other thing or join Boodle’s; while as for a man-of-war, it is either an autocracy or it is nothing, nothing at all – mere nonsense.’

For all that it has very little to do with the rest of the series, the stuff about enclosure here at least has the benefit of being memorable. Much of the rest of the book is sadly ridiculous. The absurdity peaks early on with a scene in which Bonden must win a bare-knuckle boxing match, which ends up being so violent I thought he might not survive. We like Bonden – of course we like Bonden! – but it is one authorial self-indulgence too far to turn his character into a nineteenth century brawler. It feels like fanfiction. 

The remaining passages on land in this book are long and dry and largely without character. The one thing to be said for them is that we do at least get some scenes with Diana, but otherwise it feels as though O'Brian had no clue of how to continue the series from here. There is the period of Napoleon's escape from Elba to be covered, but we can't get to that just yet, so our heroes must be dispatched to the most boring region of the war which has formed the butt of many a joke throughout the series so far – the blockade of the port of Brest. It is largely uneventful. There isn’t even a decent battle at sea to liven things up.

I think O'Brian would have been about 81 when this was published. Interestingly, it's at this point in his career that I think he was beginning to get some very serious literary recognition. He was being invited on speaking tours and having his work championed by a weird mix of writers and politicians from across the political spectrum — everyone from Charlton Heston to Christopher Hitchens proclaimed themselves fans. If I was inclined to be cynical I might argue that this book is mostly O’Brian playing to the gallery, without any clear sense of how these novels ought to be concluded. 

The parts where the author seems to be having the most fun are the novel’s idle moments; I don’t believe these books have ever seen so many comfortable dinners with shipmates or cushy evenings at Blacks club as there are described here. And how interesting that these are not comfortable dinners spent at home with family, but semi-formal occasions with colleagues. This, perhaps, is where the author really feels at ease. Even though we spend many pages in England in this book, there’s a haunting sense throughout of being perpetually at a slight discomfort at home. To some extent that was always the case — O’Brian always did stress the escapist quality of the naval career as paramount to the happiness of his heroes — but now this is tinged with a strange melancholy as it becomes clear that we can never spend a lifetime fleeing from life as part of a family. 

[husheduphistory]

The Sacred and Scattered Pieces of Paine

When Thomas Paine died the feelings left behind with the living were mixed at best. Paine was born in England and arrived in Philadelphia in late 1774 as a disgraced customs officer, bankrupt shopkeeper, and twice-divorced ex-Quaker. He had one thing in his favor, in his pocket he had a recommendation letter to be given to prominent Philadelphia merchant Richard Bache. It instructed Bache to guide Paine in gaining employment in this new world, and it was signed by Benjamin Franklin. Paine went on to thrive in his new home, becoming an activist, philosopher, political theorist, revolutionary, and a Founding Fathers of the United States. His ideas and publications were some of the most influential forces that inspired patriots to declare independence and helped fuel the American Revolution, but these did not make him a beloved man.

Portrait of Thomas Paine.

Paine’s liberal firebrand ideas on government, religion, philosophy, and the like ignited some spirits, but it burned even more bridges. He was later shunned by every church, eviscerated in print, and eventually abandoned by his friends and neighbors who looked over his many services and saw only a radical in their midst. Poverty stricken, Paine knew his end was approaching and he asked one of his few remaining friends for a deep personal favor. Willet Hicks was a Quaker minister and Paine asked him if he could petition his assembly to allow him to be buried in their burial ground. Had he changed his mind and revoked his atheism? The answer was no. He simply wanted to be buried in ground tied to his Quaker roots. When Hicks returned with his answer it appeared that the Quakers had also not changed their mind. The answer was no. It was a one of the last strikes against Paine, and it was one he took deeply. As he stated to his landlord who would now occasionally find him sobbing, “I wish to die, I see no other end to my suffering.”

The former American icon died alone in New York City on June 8th, 1809 at the age of seventy-two.

His funeral was attended by six people.

Present day 59 Grove Street in NYC, the location of Thomas Paine’s death.

Hicks, who had the displeasure of having to deny Paine a final wish, carted the body to New Rochelle, New York to a cottage owned by the dead man. He officiated a meager burial in the corner of a field and it would seem that Paine was finally allowed to rest. But, rest evaded the man even in death. Critics of Paine pelted the headstone with rocks and broke off pieces for themselves until nearly nothing remained. A sympathetic neighbor took pieces and mounted them to the wall of her tavern across the street to keep at least part of him safe, but not even that worked, the pieces were torn from the walls from relentless critics, foes, and former friends.

During his living days one particularly vocal critic of Paine was a man he had never called a friend, William Cobbett. A fellow Englishman living in Philadelphia, Cobbett stayed fiercely on the side of England and when his homeland was being viciously denounced, he lashed back with a fiery quill. Cobbett took up the pen name Peter Porcupine and proceeded to rage and slander anyone and anything that spoke against the crown. He tore into Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and Samuel Adams, but the man he held particularly strong venom for was Thomas Paine who was even the subject of a scathing biography written by Cobbett. One of the gentler comments read "Like Judas he will be remembered by posterity; men will learn to express all that is base, malignant, treacherous, unnatural, and blasphemous, by the single monosyllable, Paine."

Illustration of Cobbett as a porcupine with a snake tail and quill in hand.

After an instance of letting his words cut too deeply he was hit with a severely heavy fine of $5,000 and it was then that Cobbett decided to return to England. However, after some time in his homeland he realized that the place he so ravenously defended was changing, and he did not like the turn. The rich were getting richer, the poor were getting poorer, and the stench of corruption was everywhere. He again took to his pen, and this time it was against England. It was an action that landed him in jail and then after his release sent him sailing back to the United States in 1817. He arrived a changed man. While in prison he read Paine’s work Decline and Fall of the English System of Finance and he realized how wrong he was about the man he had previous likened to the devil himself. He had deeply wronged Paine. He needed to make it up to him.

In October of 1819 Paine’s former neighbor looked outside her tavern windows. It was late and the visibility was low.....what was that sound?

What Paine’s former neighbor found out the next morning went unknown in England until almost a month later on November 21st 1819 when Cobbett arrived again back in his homeland. At the Customs House his name was called and his many trunks were examined, among which was a wooden box. When it was opened the examiner pulled out a human skull. It was Paine’s skull, and his bones, dug up from the field by Cobbett and brought back to England to receive a grand and proper burial.

Back in the United States people refused to board the ship when they heard what Cobbett was carrying and the reception in England was just as toxic. Newspapers tore both men to ribbons, Parliament spoke of the horrible act, and some were imprisoned simply for announcing news about the arrival and Cobbett’s plan. None of icy reception could sway him though, he needed to make amends and make things right with Paine.

Portrait of William Cobbett.

His intention may have been good but Cobbett’s attempts to raise enthusiasm (and money) for a Paine memorial fell apart. His requests for funds went greatly ignored and his next plan was cloaked in foreshadowing when a birthday dinner in Paine’s honor was first kicked out of the location last minute and then rescheduled for the same day that King George died. The event did not come to pass and the attendees missed out on their gifts, gold rings made with locks of Paine’s hair taken directly from his skull. The party favor would prove to be a prologue.

With Cobbett’s plans falling through Paine was left with no resting place in England and he was forced to reside in his well-intentioned grave robber’s home until he joined him in the afterlife. When Cobbett died in 1835 his belongings were sorted through by his son, William Cobbett Jr. but soon enough he found himself having to sell them to pay a debt. Among the everyday items dragged to auction was the box of Thomas Paine’s bones. The auctioneer would not have them and Cobbett Jr. did not want them. Where would the box of Paine go?

The answer was back home, sort of. Cobbett’s neighbor George West came into possession of the deceased’s old farm, but with the farm came the bones. Before Cobbett died he said that if he was not able to accomplish burying Paine someone else surely would, but so far no one was clamoring to do so. West assumed Cobbett’s former secretary Ben Tilly would want to bury Paine, or at least know what to do with him, so he sent him the bones. Tilly, now a London tailor, had absolutely no desire for the gift that arrived at his door.  What was he supposed to do with a box of Thomas Paine? The answer was that he put him to work, using the box to sit on when measuring pants. By 1853 both the living and the dead were out of work and the box of bones found their way to yet another auction house, but this time there was a buyer.

James Watson was clearly invested in his purchase having already written a biography of Paine and an additional account on the travels of the dead man’s bones. If anyone would ensure that Paine was finally laid to rest it would be Watson, but there is no account of a burial taking place. Watson took the bones, but he also took the information of what he did with them to his grave.

By the time Watson was laid to rest the bones of Thomas Paine would have been begging for the same fate. Dug up from the ground, shipped between countries, and being swapped back and forth between numerous sets of hands had taken a toll on the memory of Paine, but it also took a very physical toll on what was left of him. Watson never revealed what he did with Paine, but numerous accounts point to him not being the only one with a piece of the old patriot. Paine’s skull and one hand had gone their own ways after being sold as separate pieces in another auction that took place before the one that put him in the hands of Watson. It was said that some of him lived in a porcelain jar in the basement of a print shop in Surrey, and people claimed small pieces of him were taken as souvenirs along his many journeys. In 1879 a London bookseller was told by a customer that he was in possession of Paine’s skull. The customer was the Reverend Robert Ainslie but his connection to the skull and bones of Thomas Paine was just as murky as the rest. Upon Ainslie’s death his daughter said that the family did have the remains and that they had since disappeared, but this was incorrect. Ainslie’s son had seen the skull and bones, he was the one who had taken them back to his own home…before bringing them next door to the Royal College of Surgeons. Upon their inspection though, the bones did not seem to belong to a man and the answer about the location of Thomas Paine continued to allude seekers.

Was he totally broken up into pieces and scattered around England? Were these all rumors and Watson had faithfully given him the burial he deserved? Where were the remains of Thomas Paine?

Death mask of Thomas Paine.

One man might not have known the location of old Paine’s bones, but he knew where another part of him lived. Ben Tilly, Cobbett’s former secretary and the man that employed Paine’s skeleton box as a seat in his tailor shop eventually handed the bones to an auction house. But the it was only the bones. Small, black, and hardened over time, Tilly kept the brain of Thomas Paine wrapped in an oilcloth in his home until the day he died.

In 1879 a Baptist minister named George Reynolds was informed by a woman in his congregation that her mother had a small collection of unusual items left over from when her previous tenant, Ben Tilly, had passed away nearly twenty years earlier. Upon inspection of the relics Reynolds did in fact find some old papers and a small box containing the brain. He purchased the box from her and so began another adventure of another part of Paine, but the minister’s home was still not the last stop. In the coming years Reynolds found himself in financial hardship and he sold the brain to his friend, herbalist Louis Breeze. Breeze’s shop was full of oddities, and his collection now included the 1” x 2” black lump that once produced the words that fueled the American Revolution. At least, that is, until 1897 when the brain turned up in another estate auction. It was purchased again by Reynolds but eventually found itself in the hands of at least two more people….before it headed home.

Dr. Moncure D. Conway, writer of The Life of Thomas Paine and The Writings of Thomas Paine, had a long history trying to gather the parts of the long dead revolutionary before he finally was able to hold his brain in his hands in 1905. But even after his arduous journey, he did not hold on to the trophy. He sent it back to New Rochelle, New York where it was received by the Thomas Paine National Historical Association (TPNHA) which was founded on January 29th, 1884, Paine’s 147th birthday.  

Dr. Moncure D. Conway.

On October 14th 1905 flags were strung up, bands played, and a crowd gathered in New Rochelle. In 1839 a marble pedestal was raised in honor of Paine near the TPNHA  and in 1899 a large bronze bust was added. It was here that a long overdue ceremony was taking place. After the music stopped Dr. E.B. Foote Jr. took the stage and began to tell the crowd about the travels of Paine’s body. “In 1883 a man named Tilly secured a small portion of his hair and brain. That piece of brain was handed down until Mr. Conway got a hold of it in London. This relic of Paine is here.” The doctor revealed a small box to the wide-eyed audience, “Here. In this small box. Now this portion of the remains is all we have left, and it will be placed within this monument. Then we can say the remains of Paine, all that we have, are to be found here.”

The small copper box holding all that we know to be left of Thomas Paine was placed in a space inside the bronze bust giving him a final resting place nearly a century after his death.

His skeleton, hand, and skull have never been located.

Thomas Paine monument in New Rochelle, New York.

Sources:

The Trouble with Tom: The Strange Afterlife and Times of Thomas Paine by Paul Collins (2005). You can find it on Amazon here.

The Thomas Paine National Historical Association https://www.thomaspaine.org/

[musickmorley0814]

Proposal for the Yearly Construction then Destruction of Modern Skyscrapers

Who has not marveled at a skyscraper rising into the night? They seem to bring down the heavens and organize its stars. These stars often read out encouraging messages or solicit funds for charity. Two workers in offices on the thirtieth floor leave their lights on, four in the floor above them, six in the floor above them, and so on down the line, and the result is a ribbon appearing on the side of the building, as a reminder to the late night worker: “May is Cancer Awareness Month”.

Nothing besides the ocean is more capable of stilling a modern heart – it reminds us of our minor position, which is something we need, given as we are to placing our desires and feelings at the center of everything. We look up at it and say to ourselves, “I will never be as tall or as put together as those sheets of glass.” The bright boxes are temp workers filling in for Christian humility. They sway dangerously in the wind – but the engineers have anticipated this problem with new kinds of flexible foundations. Every building is no less a miracle for having been calculated. Each stands as the achievement of man’s earliest and most powerful dreams.

During the daytime, everything is different – the boxes fit us into the narrow roles that run contrary to our true universality; they make it such that Man the rightful plural becomes man the accountant, man the sub-accountant, man the secretary, man the number cruncher, man the telephone, man the stapler, man the three-whole-punch… and of course there is the corner office man, coaxing and cooing half of the time, shouting the other half, just to make sure that man the stapler remembers his place, and that man the telephone knows she cannot groan about it, at least not while on the phone. These boxes drive us into therapy boxes and make us buy protest merchandise, which rails against work while being paid for and used at work. (But remember weary worker - that this purchase animates bigger, stricter boxes of persons who must shape your protest product, fire it in a kiln, paint it with carcinogens, and sleep in a cage just to have the privilege to do so!) Very occasionally, you will see eggs thrown at the side of tall buildings – there is nothing sadder and less effectual and more poetic to do in an American city.

The border between humility and powerlessness is there in the sand, but the crashing waves of daily life obscure the boundary constantly. The destruction of tall buildings is a response to powerlessness, which comes only when enough of them are built, when enough wealth is smuggled from foreign lands, extracted, melted down, built up, and organized into big disastrous boxes. Put another way: All the world’s treasures have come to these building somehow, and in this process it is not only our secretaries who get robbed of a decent way of life. It can come as no surprise, but it is a horror anyway, when someone wishes to tear down our skyscrapers.

Everyone said it was like the movies until they saw well dressed people leaping from windows. Now there is a hole in the earth where the building stood; when you look in, you cannot see to the bottom of it. It is a black square extending into the earth, the opposite of the Haj. But we know this story.

We also know how a spirit of brotherly love swept through the country and how our people, given to standoffishness on all other occasions, waved to each other in the street. Then America seemed a communal feeling rather than a compulsory abstraction.

In sight of the spiritual advantages and disadvantages of modern skyscrapers, and in sight of the spiritual advantages and disadvantages of their destruction we propose the following: the yearly construction and then conscious destruction of skyscrapers in every American city. This pattern of activity would lend balance and purpose to American life. What we now lack – intention, belief in our activity, community, fellowship, religion within the bounds of reason, decent living conditions – could all be brought back by this simple, and, so far as things go in this cash-rich nation, cheap solution. It is the combination of everything that is worthwhile from the old world with everything that is worthwhile in the new.

We envision the following: a yearly architectural competition, followed by construction, and then a chanting, singing and fully conscious attack on the great gifts to the world.

Rendered dreams are mailed in from around the world; there are designs of spirals, lipstick cases, rivers, birds, and all the other elemental, godless here-today-gone-tomorrow things which consume our attention. We immortalize a dream for a few years, with something that looks like a phallus no matter what it is supposed to represent, and then we tear it down.

The skyscrapers should be built as quickly as possible. Their construction should employ ½ of the city’s poor, their destruction should employ the other ½, who will man hundreds of wrecking balls and remotely operated planes. What each half is to do during times of unemployment is none of our business.

The offices are to be filled with new jobs, designing and marketing new products, new dreams, and new ways of managing human life. Sciences we have never dreamed of will be born inside of the great buildings. The research departments will exist just as long as it takes for them to become discredited – it goes without saying that it will be impossible to believe in anything for long. In no time at all, bastard lay-about artists, bastard lay about critical philosophers, whose laziness stinks like a foul pit, and more importantly the employees themselves will dismiss the building and its contents as so much gas; mood barometers, placed nearby the water-coolers, should indicate how many days are left before people choose to throw themselves from the windows.

At the end of this period of diminishing returns, we will invite the entire region to gather around the building to watch its destruction; the workers will stand nearby, waving banners from their bankrupt corporations, and then they will light them on fire. Around these bonfires, people will sing and dance to the company’s advertisement songs in an ironic spirit. The building’s top brass will empty out as a chain gang, forced to sing its advertisement songs earnestly. Discredited motivational speakers will stand at the front and exile themselves into nearby forests, where they can shout about the importance of intentions to frogs, for all we care.

The CEOS will also be exiled for a short time – but they will have to return later, transformed by a false education, in which all of their previous ideas are re-confirmed in the language of ancient religions.

But for now the jubilee. The lowliest secretary gets to lead the procession, she gets to know what it is like to be the big man. She sings and pushes people around; she lays them off, she tells them about where she’d like to stick their inspiration and synergy. She forces the boss to play digital solitaire for a year. She wears a golden crown.

Then the wrecking-balls; the cage of every machine has a horn-players on top. They swing away at the base of the building, as if hacking at a tree, while the remotely operated planes crash into the top of the structure. Everything will be done in the safest way but the destruction will be total.

And millions will be there, though there is no way they will all be able to get up close to the action. Enormous televisions will show them the falling building. And then these televisions will be destroyed as well, in order to free us for a moment from that which enslaves us. Everyone will sing and embrace. There will be work for a while, a little dancing, a little comfort, some wine and forgetting. The heat from the fire will warm the hearts of men and a new building competition will have already begun.

[lilschwiebbs]

*Aristotle: Ethos and Logos and Pathos*

In this entry, I will examine the critical questions: What is the main purpose of this artifact’s message and how are ethos, pathos, and logos used in this rhetorical artifact to achieve that purpose? Is the way that these rhetorical appeals are used ethical? To investigate these questions, I examined Barack Obama’s speech, “A More Perfect Union.” In this speech, Obama uses ethos, pathos, and logos to convince his audience that the issue of race cannot be ignored and can only be solved through unity, doing so in an ethical way because he calls all people to find a common ground for working together for change.

“A More Perfect Union” was delivered by Barack Obama on March 18, 2008, at the Constitution Center in Philadelphia. At this time, Barack Obama was a United States senator running for the 2008 Democratic Party presidential nomination. In this speech, Obama responds to the widespread disapproval of the controversial remarks made by his former pastor and campaign advisor, Reverend Jeramiah Wright, who was a pastor of Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago. In various sermons Wright had attacked the United States in fiery and politically divisive terms. Obama attempts to contextualize Wright’s comments and attacks on the United States while applying it to the broader issue of race in the United States. Ultimately, he asks the American people to come together and address the issue of race in order to create a better society for future generations.

In his explanation of Greek philosopher Aristotle (384–322 BCE) and his rhetorical strategy, James A. Herrick credits Aristotle for being a major contributor to the development of Western thought on rhetoric. Aristotle was first interested in the art of rhetoric in Athens, taking on Plato’s views towards rhetoric. However, he later shifted his study of the art to a more systematic approach. Aristotle believed rhetoric to be an art that combines a logical study, a psychological study, and a sociological study. Herick defines Aristotle’s three artistic proofs that make up the technique of rhetoric and show why Aristotle believed rhetoric to be an art. The three artistic proofs that are taught by the art of rhetoric are as follows: “(1) logos or arguments and logical reasoning, (2) pathos or the names and causes of various emotions, and (3) ethos or human character and goodness” (2013, p. 78). Aristotle believed that logos, pathos, and ethos provide the speaker with the proofs necessary to persuade an audience. By taking a closer look at Obama’s speech we can see how he uses each of these three artistic proofs.

Obama builds his ethos as an honest man by acknowledging the strengths and weaknesses of his own religion and relationship to his pastor in context to the broader issue of race in American society. As defined by Herrick, ethos is “the speaker’s character or personal credibility” (2013, p. 80). More specifically, Aristotle divides it into three main categories: “phronesis (intelligence, good sense), arete (virtue), and eunoia (goodwill)” (2013, p. 80-81). In other words, to have ethos, the speaker must portray trustworthy characteristics in order for their audience to believe them. Obama builds his credibility not only by his position as a senator, but more strongly by his virtue of being honest. As mentioned earlier, Obama addresses excerpts from Reverend Wright’s sermons that had been intensely scrutinized by the media and criticized for attacking the government for dishonesty and blaming the country for spreading terrorism. He denounces Reverend Wright’s comments stating that they “were not only wrong but divisive, divisive at a time when we need unity; racially charged at a time when we need to come together to solve a set of monumental problems...problems that confront us all.” However, Obama does not disown Reverend Wright as a person because those comments are not what solely define him as a person. Obama remarks that Reverend Wright is someone who introduced him to his Chirstian faith, who spoke of the importance to love one another and to care for those less fortunate. He then goes on to describe his first experience at Trinity where he learned about stories of survival, freedom, and hope that members of his black church experienced. He acknowledges that there too is “bitterness and biases that make up the black experience in America.” He goes on to say that he cannot disown Reverend Wright any more than he can disown the black community or his white grandmother, because people like him and people like his white grandmother, who has her own biases, are part of him and part of America. Obama’s explanation and contextualization of his pastor’s comments and his own faith reflect honesty because he is not trying to cover anything up or ignore the flaws that the black community or any community might have. Instead, he recognizes the imperfections and in a broader sense, uses this to help his audience recognize the imperfections that exist in society. He uses ethos to persuade his audience to acknowledge these issues and come together in order to solve them.

In addition to using ethos, Obama uses a pathos appeal by drawing on personal experiences to create the feeling of hope in addressing the issue of race. Herrick defines pathos as “emotional appeals that give persuasive messages their power to move an audience to action” (2013, p. 79). In concluding his speech, Obama leaves the audience to reflect on the story of a young, 23-year-old white woman named Ashley Baia. He explains that she helped organize his campaign in Florence, S.C. and had been working for a predominately African-American community since the start of the campaign. One day she participated in a discussion where everyone was telling their personal stories and why they were helping the campaign. Ashley’s purpose began when her mother got cancer and she ended up losing her healthcare and going bankrupt. Ashley had to support her mother during this time and she explained that her reason for joining the campaign was to help other millions of children who need to do the same for their parents. Obama uses this story to explain that Ashley might have made an alternate choice and blamed her mother’s problems on blacks, Hispanics, or some other convenient scapegoat. Instead, Ashley found allies to help her fight injustice. He then continues the story by saying that an elderly black man who had been sitting and listening to Ashley’s story was asked why he was there, and he answered, “I am here because of Ashley.” Obama uses the emotional appeal of this story to show how a white girl and an old black man found an understanding between each other and how he hopes other people of diverse backgrounds can do the same. The story generates hope that diverse people can work together on racial as well as other issues.

Lastly, Obama uses logos to appeal to his audience by showing past instances when unity has prevailed in the United States. According to Herrick, Aristotle used logos in rhetoric “to refer to proofs available in words, arguments, or logic of a speech” (2013, p. 79). Logos is the implementation of logical proof. It refers to reasoning or formal logic. Obama begins his speech by referring to the Constitution that promised its people a more perfect union over time. However, he points out the fact that the very words of this promise were not enough to free slaves and give every person of color their complete rights and responsibilities as citizens of the United States. Instead, “what would be needed were Americans in successive generations who were willing to do their part – through protests and struggles, on the streets and in the courts, through a civil war and civil disobedience, and always at great risk – to narrow the gap between the promise of our ideals and the reality of their time.” He refers to the people before us who, through their actions, helped pave the way for a more free, equal, and just society. Without the participation of the people, the promise of a more perfect union could not be made. Obama draws on this reasoning to instill in his audience that it is up to the American people to continue this march for a better society by solving these problems together as a people. He continues to refer to the past throughout his speech and reminds his audience “that so many of the disparities that exist between the African-American community and the larger American community today can be traced directly to inequalities passed on from an earlier generation that suffered under the brutal legacy of slavery and Jim Crow.” He then gives various examples of the inequalities that are still evident today: the impact of segrated schools on the acheivement gap between black and white students, legalized discrimination which prevented black families from accumulating wealth for future generations, and the lack of ecnomic opportunity among black men that contributed to the violence and neglect we see today. In referring to this history of the United States, Obama draws on logic to show how racial inequalities began and why they continue to exist today. He does this in the attempt to persuade his audience of the importance of unity in order to promote change for a better society.

Obama’s use of these rhetorical appeals to persuade his audience is ethical because his ultimate desire is to unify the people of the United States. Furthermore, there are no parts in his speech that attempt to mislead or to manipulate information. For example, his reference to United States history and to the Constitution are truthful and factual. In addition, Obama’s willingness to address issues about race that are rarely ever spoken about appeals to his honest and truthful intentions and his desire to direct the country to a better place. When addressing the comments about his former Reverend, Obama does not try to justify the statements in any way, but instead uses them to acknowledge the flaws and inequalities in our society and emphasize the importance and need for change. This speaks to Obama’s good ethics because he tries to remain as neutral as possible and attempts to address all sides on the issue of race, while emphasizing his concern for the people of the United States.

In conclusion, Obama’s speech on race gives strong reasoning for why the issue of race should not be ignored and can only be solved by people of diverse backgrounds and beliefs coming together. He applies all three of Aristotle’s artistic proofs to move his audience in the direction of believing that society can change if the union is strengthened. He does so ethically by giving truthful and factual logic, while avoiding any manipulation of information.

References

Herrick, J.A. (2013). The history and theory of rhetoric: An introduction. London and New York: Routledge Taylor & Francis Group.

Obama, B. (2008, March 18). A more perfect union. Eidenmuller, M.E., American Rhetoric. Retrieved from https://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/barackobamaperfectunion.htm

[rfhusnik]

The King Of The Underground

Written By:  F. John Surells

              Just now I’m thinking I feel a lot like the man who is my main focus in this piece most likely felt when he left the first line of a poem unwritten. Yes, he left the initial line blank, and then wrote as that poem’s second line “has been left unwritten.”

           I say we have, as mortals, two great human influencers who greatly assist us in our making of temporal decisions. Their beliefs stimulate us mentally. Their actions challenge us physically. And we use their totalities of being to help construct our own. But who are those people? The first is a love of one’s life, and the second is one’s greatest philosophical mentor.

           And personally, I and a number of others have previously stated in these writings that the love of my life is Renni Maes-Surells, but my greatest mentor is a man whose name can’t be shared here. He exists in a realm I call “the underground,” though I’ve referenced him in other writings as “the man from the (two words deleted).” And the following are some points of view and reminiscences concerning him.

           “This is the end of our grace period in regard to you,” said the conformers. “All your life all you’ve really done has been throw stones against the bastions of structure. And don’t try to revel in clarity, or excuse wrong deeds you may have done simply because you knew long ago that there hadn’t been any collusion or obstruction.”

           “Sometimes maybe it’s better to leave unsaid certain sayings which others might raise eyebrows to; but then, if they don’t know you have the capability to say such sayings by now, then I guess they never will know of that capability, and, they’ll never really know you! And besides that, who is ever going to truthfully tell us if one should use a slash mark rather than a semi-colon, or what Fitzgerald and Poe thought about starting sentences with gerunds, and why, in all candor, the best looking woman at the performance wasn’t really a woman, but rather a man who dressed like, and appeared to be a woman?

           But, with that last question having been posed, the man from the underground said “Alright, enough is enough. Let the record show that while I believed members of one sex could be attracted to members of that same sex, I was never one of those. And, likewise, if it’s true that certain mortals identify as being both sexes simultaneously, then I believe only they can understand and confront the realities of such a situation.”

           But then suddenly the defenders of conformity interjected themselves into the conversation yet again. “We’ve got a lot to say now” they said. “And please, from this point on, don’t even bother to distinguish our concerns with the use of quotation marks.”

           “You’ve got it”! said the underground man. And he set off his quote with quotation marks.

           Opposites often attract, but attractions often fade. They fade away sometimes, and then those who were attracted are left to hold on to reminiscences, but only if they wish to; or only if they somehow simply can’t free themselves from them.

           Sometimes (and that some time may be any day time) I feel like a man who just reached the garden gate after walking down a straight and narrow concrete walkway from his home inside the sanctuary of literature. And as I open that gate, and prepare to leave an abode of personal personalities, I realize that today, as on all previous days, and I suppose as on all days to come, I have an idea of, but can’t actually say for certain what lies ahead of me in the world outside the barrier which opens and closes my world to that of others.

           And, yes, I’ll open the gate, and I’ll walk out into an unknown and an unsuspecting world, but before I do, I’ll say a prayer here on the inside. “God of all that’s known and not known, keep me and those I love safe this day. And guard the world you created. Keep it safe from those who are evil, and from those who are careless, and also from those who, apparently for one reason or another, can’t realize what the ramifications of their beliefs and actions may be.”

           And with that prayer said, it occurs to me that some may think me arrogant or narcissistic, or both. And some may feel I’m a number of other objectionable things as well. But yet, whenever those fears of possible behind my back condemnations visit me, I’m also reminded of two simplistic clichés:  One, I don’t want to fade away without having said what I knew needed to be said; and two, I don’t want to be simply gone – even if it may be that I’d be gone but not forgotten.

           And I’ve already pledged my love, respect, and allegiance to the Master of the Universe, but now I want to speak of a certain man I’ve spoken of before in these postings. He’s been my greatest mortal influence – I think! That is, he doesn’t live in my city. He only visits it from time to time.          I got an email from Ralph recently. He wrote that the so-called “man from the green city” will soon be visiting our city once again. And, Ralph asked if I’d attempt to write what he termed a “free flow prose piece” in honor of that man and his city. And Ralph said he’d give me a “free hand” to construct that piece (or pieces if I needed to extend to two postings), but he wished me to entitle that composition “The King Of The Underground,” which apparently is the new appellation he’s given to the man whom we previously addressed as the man from the green city.

           Now, as you may surmise, this is a daunting task in that I don’t want to disappoint Ralph or the man whom I’ll be referencing. But yet, from the few times I’ve met the Underground’s newly crowned monarch, I think I can easily hold forth here for at least two postings, and, could probably extend beyond that. Trust me, the King is such a mortal as you’ll most likely never meet. He has his own mind, his own beliefs, and, like our city’s leader Ralph Hawk, seems also to have what I’ll call “an iron will.” Still, his interests and concerns seem to be varied and multi-faceted. Thus, expect the words that will follow here to exemplify what I perceive as being his “reality of being”. And, please

remember that the words I’ll write here will most likely only be visions held briefly within my comprehension. And, I’m thinking that most of those which won’t directly reference the King, but which will instead speak to other random matters, may emanate from news broadcasts which we’ve lately learned tend to report the incorrect and the fake, rather than the truthful and verifiable.

           Thus, narcissism I grant you a free reign here! Anoint your new king!  

           Look! There’s a picture of a boy who, as a man I came to know as a friend, though I only saw him when he infrequently visited our city. And, he visits here yet sometimes still, albeit always with a mind concerned about the future, while often contemplating the past.

           And there’s a year written on that picture I referenced a paragraph ago. It’s 1955. And on the picture the lad seems to be proud of his new toy log assemblage. But then I guess a year passed, and the Union of Soviets invaded Hungary, and the boy learned, mostly through personal study, about Nikita Khruschev, Joseph Stalin, and Communism.

           And, with a knowledge of the far left wing of the political spectrum in hand, an introduction to the far right wing came with the trial of Adolf Eichman in the early 1960’s. And some background study taught the lad about The Fuhrer and the dream of a fascist world. But then came November 1963 and the death of a Democratic president. And today how many in his party would dare ask what people could do for their country rather than what their country could do for them?

           And after the assassination, a cultural void was filled by English musicians. And they soothed the conscience of America until the nation’s most divisive war began to rage in the middle of the 1960’s. And in 1969 it was at its ugliest.

           But it was fashionable to live in cliques at that time. And cliques and communes were fine for a while, until the leader of one of them sent some of his followers out to commit some brutal murders – in 1969.

           But, now it’s happened! We’ve reached a juncture at which we’re no longer certain that certain occurrences really occurred, or whether they did occur, but in different ways and means from those believed and gossiped about by commoners we may have known.

           But the absolute truth and truths of the past are known only to the masters of the universe. And of them today we ask forgiveness for all wrongs we’ve committed. And we assure them and all their inferiors that our remorse for errors committed is sincere. And then we – carry on. And then we – try to live better than we have.

           But our respect is given only to those who’ve earned it. We won’t allow ourselves to be degraded by old men and elderly women who shake their fingers at us and blame us for an environment that’s changing. Of course the environment is changing! But so are many other things! Are we living in a vacuum where all remains the same except for such alterations which chastise the middle and lower classes?

           And you young men and women who occupy seats in the various levels of our nation’s government; many of you are sadly incompetent to perform the duties you’ve undertaken. Many of you espouse radical changes which would bankrupt this nation at the least, or render it vulnerable to domination by foreign powers, or the large number of people you’ve helped enter it illegally, or both.

           Working class Americans don’t want to be demeaned by phony investigations or hate-filled  environmental and impeachment threats. Instead, they want Congress to address their concerns about their  future safety and well-being, as well as their desire that America remain an English and not a Spanish speaking nation in the years to come, and that it be an American and not a Hispanic governed entity.

[blackhoof-kra]

Burning Man. Oregon Country Fair. The John Muir Trail. “Because it’s there.” Buddhist retreats. Trekking in Nepal. Firefly gathering. Rainbow gathering.

I traveled to Standing Rock in November of 2016 with my friend, hauling over 5000 dollars worth of winter tents, clothing, food, and gear. My full time job allowed me to stay barely a week, and my ego, mixed with a hefty dose of white savior mentality, convinced me that my training as an EMT, and my lifetime of experience with direct action and social justice, would make me useful. Fast forward 5 days, and I was crying in the driver’s seat of my car, while my amazing friend listened quietly as I grieved for something I didn’t know I had ever lost.

Standing Rock is an incredible place. An indigenous led prayer ceremony, populated by resistance movements from every corner of the globe, many of them bound to each other by shared and distinct traditions of dance, song, storytelling, and way of being in the physical world. Like any indigenous and overwhelmingly powerful place, white people had decided to take it. White people, like me, were arriving to SR in droves, some of us even dressed like it was Burning Man, forcing our way to seats right next to the sacred fire, putting our pasty faces too close to elders and demanding that they teach us their culture, clumsily mimicking centuries old dance traditions, jostling for position in the lines for free food, taking up so much space that the medicine tent had to be guarded 24/7, and young Dakota men were placing themselves in front of elders to protect them from the onslaught of questions and poking and consumption an demands for emotional labor and reliving centuries of trauma. By the time we arrived, SR elder organizers had begun holding twice a day orientations, where each of these things was addressed, and indigenous folks were demanding that white people stop colonizing their space. Yes, colonizing their space.

“White people have no culture.”

This is partially true. It is also untrue. This statement is a form of denial, and also a source of grief.

White people do have culture. Our culture is that of colonization. Of genocide. Of taking. Of envy and of fear. The majority of white people can name no more than two generations back in their families. The majority of white people barely know where their grandparents were from, much less who their ancestors were. The majority of white people have no traditions, and the ones we have, are rooted in consumption and the superficial application of organized religion, both of which are steeped in histories of violence. Christmas is about a severed tree dropping dead needles on heaps of plastic crap, grinding the gears of our capitalist economy, a formerly pagan ritual that has been bastardized and twisted into a stressful display of wealth and excess. Easter is about disposable plastic balls full of processed sugar, many of which are left for years to mar the sterilized landscapes and rigidly decorated city parks and backyards. Valentine’s Day was created exclusively by the greeting card industry to make you spend money on disappointing gifts and unhealthy treats for your unsatisfied monogamous partner. Independence Day is a too long period of time where daily explosions and worshipping of war trigger people and animals with PTSD, and create an alarming amount of pollution, maimed limbs, and death. Thanksgiving? Don’t even start.

The closest thing white people have to culture is our disturbingly fanatical obsession with sports, which we use to justify things like property destruction, vitriolic hatred for people we don’t know, and even accidental deaths. These are the same things that we justify with our constant military assault on developing and impoverished communities, at home and abroad.

Which brings me to my main point: The culture of white people is the culture of death. It is a culture of endless war, desensitization to human suffering, and the upholding of a brutal individualism fueled by greed. It is a deep, dark hole of grief and of loss. We don’t even know what we lost. We don’t know our ancestors. We don’t have stories of creation and hope and family; only stories of destruction and genocide. Our coming of age ceremony is a school shooting. Our song is a ballad about rockets and explosions. Our elders die alone surrounded by their stories of family members who no longer visit them. Our cities were built by the blood of slaves, on top of the graves of native people.

Philosopher and professor John Kozy writes;

"Violence pervades this culture. Americans not only engage in violence, they are entertained by it. Killing takes place in America more often than the Sun rises, currently at an average of 87 times each day. Going to war in Afghanistan is less dangerous than living in Chicago. The Romans went to the Coliseum to watch people being killed. In major cities, Americans just look out their windows. Baseball, once America’s national game, a benign, soporific sport, has been replaced by football which is so violent it destroys the brains of those who play it. Violent films, euphemized as action flicks, dominate our motion picture theatres and television sets. Our children play killing video games."

We do not get to achieve enlightenment; we lost that privilege centuries ago. We buried it in graves on land upon which we were strangers. This loss is real, palpable, and painful. There is a profound level of fear inherent in white people and the way we desperately grasp that which is not ours. This hole cannot be filled by our self delusion, and it represents generations of isolation and grief. It is our own generational trauma that we carry with us and pass on to our children. It hurts, and we do not know how to assuage that pain.

So we take. We take the traditions, costumes, dances, songs, and agency of marginalized groups after we have decimated their populations and destroyed their homes, and we polish these items so the suffering cannot be seen. We take their words out of context, and we use them to make money and to fake solidarity. We take their circles and stories and we wash them with our whiteness, and we struggle to fit them into our bloody box. We take their lands, their trails, their mountains, their rocks, and we climb and walk on them, snatching frenzied glimpses of what we want to call connection, enlightenment, transcendence, and wondering why they slip through our grasp. So instead, we get high on endorphins and call that “good enough.”

We want to learn something about ourselves that we lost, and so we keep taking the tokens and lives of other communities. But that one doesn’t fit, so, you know...on to the next.

The cycle needs to stop. It is the responsibility of white people to face our history and to fight the culture we have created. Stop hiding behind the stories and tokens of other people, and be accountable for the brutal ways we have consolidated our power and privilege. Stop pretending like you can hike or climb or meditate your way out of this power dynamic. You are not enlightened. Let’s stop with the excuses. You are powerful, and it is time to own that and to use it to fight back against the culture of death and violence that has left us spiritually and morally bankrupt. Call out the bullshit when you see it, in yourself and in others. Stop colonizing the lives and land and stories of others. Stop perpetuating the culture of death, and instead fight for the living.

[wayneooverton]

All the mean, nasty and godawful hateful things people say to me online

Guys, why do people troll on the internet? Why are blogger hate comments a thing? Let this be the philosophical question of the day. Please, god, why? WHY? WHY?

And of all the people, why me? I’m a perfectly innocent little travel blogger over here, just minding my own business. The purpose of this blog is to inspire people to travel, what is so confronting about that? Move along. Why can people be so mean to me online? I don’t get it. I’m lovely, alright?

Just kidding. Sometimes I’m a shit stirrer. I stir the pot on purpose. If I see something I think is wrong, I say it. Also, god did not see fit to gift me with grace or tact. I am really good at regularly putting my foot in my mouth, often publicly. I also don’t know when to back away. And I’m cynical. Is this a recipe for a well-loved image? I’m not quite sure.

At least I’m real, right? Of all my flaws at least I like to think I’m authentic, the only truly honest blogger in a sea of vapid, shallow fools.

Stop talking, Liz. Like right now.

Anyways, it’s no secret, I get mean comments on the regular, so regular in fact that I have been doing annual round ups of the best mean comments I get every single year since 2012. I know I’m shamefully overdue on this post. I completely missed 2016.

2016 was an intense year for me, and when it came down to digging through comments looking for the horrible ones, I just couldn’t bring myself to go down that particular roller coaster. It was also the first year I started to get death threats. I just wasn’t in the mood. Can you forgive me?

Hate comments aren’t a novelty to me anymore, and they haven’t been for a long time. I’ve gotten tens of thousands of comments over the years, with a small percentage of them being ugly, and I’ve learned to just let them slide by in a giant wave of pity – I truly for sorry for anyone that takes the time to hate me so much online. Also, I’m probably laughing at you.

The best hate I got in 2015

The best hate I got in 2014

The best hate I got in 2013

The best hate I got in 2012

Also, I’ve really just stopped paying attention when people troll me; five years of regular trolls has given me armor. I went from being a delicate rose who bruised easily to a goddamn rhino. Go on, try and say something to mean to me. It can hardly be any worse that what I’ve gotten before.

And to be honest, it’s the same shit day in and day out. You’re privileged (yeah I know), you’re entitled (no I am not, thank you), you travel off your daddy’s money (HA, if you only knew…), you’re ugly, you’re fat, you’re stupid, you swear too much, you’re a know it all, you do this why don’t you do that, blah blah blah it never fucking ends.

Honestly, I yearn for the creative insults. I think my trolls have gotten lazy. Where’s the witty banter? The colorful backhanded comments? The passive aggressive DMs? They’ve disappeared into regular grammatically ugly “what a c*nt” and “how is this blog even popular” lazy comments. I mean for fuck’s sakes guys, if you’re gonna come for me, try a little.

But I digress. Back by popular demand, I’ve taken the time to dig through my work and find the best of the best blogger hate comments, the most entertaining, the ugliest, the cruelest, the worst hate comments I get just for you. Because at the end of the day, the only way we can deal with this BS is just to laugh. You’re welcome. Enjoy.

1. The most popular Facebook comment in response to an article about how I built my career in blogging

And if she wasn’t a young blond with a penchant for putting out to old men she’d be working at Officeworks for $15/hr

I want to start an argument about feminism here but just can’t be fucked.

2. And the second most liked comment on the same article 

The only thing worse than a human that resembles a vacuous opportunistic sponge is the plethora of parasites that aspire to be just that.

Just so we’re clear, I’m the sponge and you’re the parasite in this allegory.

3. Writing about how Jane Goodall inspires me to be better with conservation

You are not an “activist for saving the planet.” The number of flights you take each year creates more carbon emissions that most of us create in our LIVES. If you actually cared about the environment you would travel solely by bike and public transport with an occasional flight, not dozens of international flights a year. Get a grip.

I mean, fair point. I’d love some tips about biking overseas from the island of New Zealand where I live.

4. I really hate it when people don’t get sarcasm online on my how to cheat on Instagram

Teaching young people that life depends on Instagram. Thats great and people were wondering what was happening to our decaying society. Telling them that their popularity will increase if they sell their sexuality too. Wow what a true feminist you are. Pathetic. The whole millennial generation is going to be morally bankrupt.

I just facepalmed so hard.

5. Speaking of Instagram…

Not to be rude, just honest, but I noticed your photos have extremely low engagement for “168K” followers. I wonder if the companies who pay you notice this.

Guys, I’m literally one of the ONLY people who doesn’t cheat on Instagram! That’s why my engagement isn’t out of this world. But thanks for pointing that out.

6. That one time I wrote that Central Otago is one of the only regions in New Zealand that has four distinct seasons (which is true)

Seriously? The only region in New Zealand that experiences four distinct seasons? You need to travel more and drink less Pinot. I’m not even sure how I got your spam mail, but I live here, not just a FIFO tourist. If you want to trade travel stories, I’m sure you’ll lose.

You can’t make me drink less Pinot!!!! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!

7. When I wrote a million years ago about things that I hate that people do on airplanes

Sounds like a person who wrote the original article needs more than Ambien. probably could use some Xanax and some Prozac also. when you travel on a plane you know there is also something called other human beings. Get a grip. judging by your photo, You’re not that cute or anything special…..

Hope you find the help you need.

Kisses!

You know, funny story. One time in Bangkok I went to a pharmacy to get some sleeping pills for upcoming long haul flights – sometimes in Southeast Asia I can get strong sleeping pills over the counter. They gave me Xanax, no questions asked. Best flight ever. In fact, imagine if Xanax was provided on all long-haul flights. Who do I need to speak to about this?

8. Any time I provoke the vegans, one of my favorite pastimes 

Me: writes thousands of words about wildlife, travel, sustainable tourism practices or about anything really

All of the vegans: You should consider going vegan

Me: but, bacon? So tasty.

All of the vegans: PITCHFORKS AT ATTENTION!

As a close friend used to say, do not negotiate with terrorists, Liz.

9. When I wrote a blog post about how to move to New Zealand as American (if you need some entertaining, go read through the comments) which is a minefield!

It is not your home. even if you wish it was it’s not, it is new zealands home. fuck off to your own home. leave mine alone… just fuck off back to usa and leave nz to be nz. stop telling people how to get here, we don’t want you. most nzers hate americans, you are boring n have no sense of humour, just fuck off bck to usa and leave nzers to our own country, plus u don’t get my point cos u dumb american.if u don’t want to be thought of a american sterotype don’t act like dunb american cunt….you are such a dunb cunt. this is why we hate you.

I can’t look beyond the grammatical and spelling errors in this, honestly I tried, but I can’t.

Yes go ahead pls MOVE out from US we don’t need weak, pathetic, ignorant ppl here who need “safe-spaces” You have been brain washed by fake media like cnn, fox, abc etc for too long

I just can’t.

Congratulations on proving again that liberal thought is shallow and feelings-based. Too much reading making your head hurt?

I’m literally the biggest reader you’ve ever met. Don’t even.

I read the first couple of paragraphs and had to stop. As a Trump supporter, I am offended by your words and will now stop following you. It’s really too bad that you offend some of your followers, here I thought I was following a travel blog. Please do move to NZ, because America will be better off without you!!

It’s ok, I’m ashamed to have had you as a reader.

That response obviously shows why 20 something women shouldn’t even have the right to vote.

*Begins to pull hair out of own head*

Im just trying to save you from having to take depression medication for the rest of your life thats all. What are you on now Zoloft or Prozac?

Neither, unfortunately. I sure could use one after reading this.

10. I appeared in a big NBC Dateline special about American’s moving to New Zealand and man, that opened the floodgates of crazy

Stay out of America you traitor bitch.

This was the first of many comments calling me a traitor.

STAY OUT OF AMERICA YOU BITCH. HOPE A HOBBIT KILLS YOUR SORRY ASS CUNT.

LOL!!!

STAY OUT OF AMERICA YOU BITCH. I hope a sheep kills you and your family you faggot, the USA is the best country ever.

Me: I feel so sorry for you

I feel worse for you, you no good commie bastard. Stay out of my country and fuck off cunt. Fuck you you no life blogger get a real job.

Me: You feel better now?

Yes, I’m living in the US of A #MAGA fuck. Cuck.

Me: Well I feel better living in a place with people nicer than you. And I have healthcare. And I can spell.

BOOM! How’d they do? What’s the worst thing anyone has said to you online? Do you get trolled? How do you cope? Spill!

The post All the mean, nasty and godawful hateful things people say to me online appeared first on Young Adventuress.

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