I’m too fucking autistic for this, I thought to myself, as I read over the strict set of rules, guidelines, and pre-cautionary measures for my school’s Secret Santa game. In Secret Santa games of old, there was a greater feeling of structurelessness- a kind of free-spirited whimsy- where you made your best guess at to what your Secret Santee would like. There was a dangerous, fascistic element to this- especially for the unwitting autist, who may think that a handsome print copy of “Industrial Society and Its Future” would make for an insightful and appropriate gift.
Perhaps it would spark interesting conversation and a new friendship?
Perhaps the woman reading “The Handmaid’s Tale,” who confessed to our group as we waited for the “Monthly Meditative Moment” morning meeting to begin, that it makes her weep “good, cleansing tears,” would enjoy a copy of “The Pussy“- at least to actively engage in a healthy counter-narrative?
I’m too fucking autistic for this, but luckily, along with our packet of guidelines and measures, came a Secret Santa wish-list. This is highly beneficial, as it takes the thinking out of your Secret Santa shopping- also, no unsightly, autistic mistakes; “a science teacher would obviously love a DVD copy of Primer,” Bad Billy thought one lonely year.
While a wish-list takes the thinking out of shopping for your Secret Santa, it comes with the added treachery of filling the fucking thing out for whomever is lucky enough to get saddled with a socially retarded adult. “I love this but never buy it for myself…” Uhhh… “Favorite Fast Food” Well, I don’t eat fast food, obviously… “Favorite Hobby”… “Favorite Thing to Read” ……think normie thoughts, think normie thoughts….
The day of our big reveal would coincide with “Ugly Sweater Day.” This was not unexpected, of course, as there is more visual grandeur in an ugly sweater than there would be with “Holiday Socks” or “Holiday Colors”- something too vague to be effective. Besides, “Ugly Sweater Day” culminates with the “Ugly Sweater Contest,” and the added allure of a Dunkin Donuts gift card- so there was good sense in creating a festive buzz by combining events.
We reveal ourselves. We act surprised. I never really knew Gloria in the attendance office, but I appreciated her small gift-bags and cryptic mini-cards signed by “Santa.” We talk about how much we liked the items we requested. We are grateful and thankful. We comment on each other’s awful, inauthentic ugly sweater. We laugh.
Office culture is inherently feminine- fascistically feminine- you either wear the pink ribbon on the right day or you get the fuck out.
“A Christmas Carol” is about an aging libertarian being given powerful hallucinogens and getting conned out of his money. Poor Ebeneezer, doped up on psychotropics, never stood a chance. And, worse, Dickens considered him the villain of the story!
All for the sin of being a single, white man with money.
If Dickens can be credited with anything, it certainly isn’t coming up with this piece of shit, but instead for being keenly aware of the emotional proclivities of his audience. The Victorian British thought poverty was unsightly, but didn’t really want to do anything about it, yet wanted to feel as though they did.
Reading “A Christmas Carol” (1843) did the trick and would have made you a “woke Londoner” in Victorian social circles; you were aware of the problem and virtuous enough to care- yes, Charles Dickens may have created the first piece of literature in the “virtue signaling” genre.
Either you went along with the awful, inauthentic conversations where heartfelt concerns over terrible conditions for the poor were carefully expressed, or you could get the fuck out of polite society.
For laying the groundwork of virtue signaling lit, Dickens was crafty. The villain should always reflect the hidden portion of public sentiment. In order to cleanse one’s self of sin and come out the other side ready to broadcast virtue, there must be a portion of the story where you see your own black heart reflected in the villain’s most heinous moments.
When pressed for a Christmas donation to the poor, Scrooge scoffs at the idea of the state-funded homeless shelters being so inadequate that literal beggars would sooner choose death, so he accuses them of being choosers, shouting, “If they would rather die… they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”
Surplus population. Good villains always speak the truth. The problem with poverty in England at the time had everything to do with a surplus population- and everyone knew it, even if only through shadowed whispers.
Nineteenth century science had put a major dent in the problem of infant mortality- fewer children were dying during child birth. Per thousand live births, infant mortality was “around 350 by the mid-17th century, before a steady decline to below 200 by the mid-18th and around 100 by the mid-19th century.” Similarly, more children were surviving to adulthood, all of which created unprecedented poverty in England.
Poverty is a riddle with no solution; poverty is a problem that cannot be solved.
Look at it like this- science creates conditions where populations can thrive, typically the poor show less restraint when it comes to reproduction, and soon-enough the poor begin to out-number everyone else- so what can you do?
Read “A Christmas Carol,” of course! And, curiously, this sack of crap survived to our present day- getting the Hollywood treatment over-and-over, sometimes more than once within the same decade.
At its core, “A Christmas Carol” is a heartwarming holiday tale of wealth redistribution and resource reallocation. The pivotal question is on the interpretation of “charity”- who exists on either side of the equation. How can you manipulate the giver to have enough sympathy for the receiver in order to complete the transaction? To the elites in charge, the question becomes: which population should we subsidize to the point of hyperinflation?
Libertarianism is fucking retarded, but it’s impossible to not feel some libertarian teen angst when you’re the only one not invited to the party- Dickens’ buck stops with the single white man, who only exists as spare parts and dog food in “A Christmas Carol.”
Either get the message and pay-out or your corpse will be looted by thieves who hate you.
But before I start posting Julie Borowski videos and big-brained memes, it’s impossible to ignore the vital difference between “A Christmas Carol” in its original form and something like “Scrooged” (1988)- Dickens was writing for a culturally homogeneous audience, in a time before a concept like “globalism” was truly possible. There was a pride one could take in helping support his fellow countryman- whose grandparents may have prayed together, whose ancestors may have fought together.
The libertarian is too “retarded” to understand this and will point to the more manipulative aspects of “A Christmas Carol” as inauthentic charity– think Stefan Molyneux throwing a fit over the word “voluntary”- and start whining about socialism with that awful, smug tone that only idiots use.
While his book sucks and his arguments are childish, the point remains that we can do better than allow our brothers to die in the street.
The problem arises when our terrible overlords try to tell us who our family is- the Hollywood interpretation turned “A Christmas Carol” globalist. The point was blood and soil- providing charity to our own community; Dickens was inherently a nationalist. Any modern interpretation of “A Christmas Carol” will define blood as “the human race,” soil as “mother Earth,” and charity as redistributing wealth to the third world.
Office culture will forever be defined by the feminine- our terrible overlords ensured we lost the battle of the sexes. Office culture also provides a fun, light-hearted atmosphere to the work day and a feeling of community- as long you do as you’re told and keep your fucking mouth shut. Through office culture, I sit here typing in fuzzy socks- an item requested on my Secret Santa wish-list and wonderfully delivered by Gloria, my new friend in the attendance office, who can be added to those I cheerfully greet in the morning; “oh my gosh, is it Monday again?! Good thing I’m wearing comfortable socks!” Yes, office culture is manipulative and inauthentic but it’s also nice- so shut up and go with it. What are you, fucking autistic?