The Legend of Sleeping Bougie

Lately I’ve spent most my time online trying to wake up Sleeping Bougie. There’s something enticing about those stirring bodies, so close to being awoken, so on the edge of glory that I’m all too tempted to give them a shove. Thing is, they’re usually so carabinered and clawed into the capitalist cliff face that they can’t be dislodged. The almost-thereness of their political stance is an illusion.

It’s technically true, which is the best kind of truth. North Koreans will always win the Oppression Olympics, and the gold medal is every person of color in America who has to worry about getting murdered by the cops on the way home from school is erased because *statistically* it isn’t that common! You’re right, moderates. *Most* American kids DON’T have to worry about anything like this!

One would be better off tangling with a swing-vote Trump supporter because at least they admit something is wrong (they’re just not sure what it is), and while they’re on the wrong side of the mountain, they’re usually not so tethered down. I could drag a fascist halfway to socialism with wordplay while a milquetoast moderate would have already wrapped cement-dipped chains around their body and permanently affixed themselves to the granite.

In this, our time of terror, there’s nothing more sweet to a NeoLiberal leader than a bunch of “progressives” (read those scare quotes with the most derision you can muster) who are actively leaking diarrhea into their shoes. That’s why they place a statue at the end of Wall Street (why oh why am I forced to repeat this) and most folks reply, “Awww, girls rule!” when the intended message was, “Lean in, motherfuckers, girls can be filthy stinkin’ rich too.” When an inadvertent revolutionary humps its face in a coked-out stupor, the scare-quote progressives all rally to the cause of bootstrappy fiscal equality. No defiled pile of horse shit is exempt from knee-jerk liberal defense as long as it at least seems to align with their pet causes.

Likewise, I keep seeing people ugly cry over this young, beautiful, English-speaking (this is not coincidence – try it with bad dental care, a monobrow, and a translator) North Korean defector and her harrowing tale of escape. It’s okay to be moved by this. Pathos works, and I’d never ask you to stop feeling. Thing is, after you wipe your tears away on the hem of your “I Stand With Standing Rock” t-shirt, maybe you should take a second and consider the source.

One Young World, the host of this viral speech, is owned by this guy. He’s an advertising executive, and since you probably won’t click that link, here’s a tidbit:

From 2007–2010, Jones led the Euro RSCG team advising David Cameron and the UK Conservative Party.

Hahaha, okay.

Here’s a choice quote from the man himself:

“I passionately believe that what our industry actually excels at is using our creativity to change people’s behavior. Given the state of the world, I believe that we in the creative industries not only have an opportunity but an obligation to use that talent and our creativity to change people’s behavior around some of the bigger issues facing the world.”

Donald Draper, eat your heart out. 

If you’re a moderate, that statement probably gave you the warm fuzzies. If you’re an ad exec with delusions of grandeur, those aforementioned fuzzies gave you a cockstand (or increasingly, thanks to well-placed statues, they made your Mylas musty). 

Let me head something off at the pass, here. There are moderate views I can grok, but they’re all born of nihilism. If your reply is something like, “Things never change,” (Weems, 2016), I’d say, “Not with that attitude,” but you’re probably correct. Certain segments of British society have this notion down pat, and it creates different fiction. There’s a reason why The Office had a short, stagnant run there and its export to the good ol’ US of A resulted in a decade of character development. We have to admit it’s getting better all the time. Thing is, happy endings are only half the story, so if your moral is, “we’re fucked,” you’re reading the writing on the wall. 

Likewise, if you express socialist thought but admit the Democrats have bullied and marginalized progressives for so long no viable alternative exists (Reynolds, 2017) other than, in my case, laughing maniacally while they plow the brittle steel of their Olympic-class liner into the iceberg of capitalist capitulation (it’s okay, they’ll make it into the lifeboats), then I’ll consider you a reasonable lass or fellow.

However, if your reaction to current events is to not only unquestioningly attend this dinner theater but graciously accept the shit sandwich they unceremoniously slap on your plate and salivate at the thought of shoving it into your quivering piehole, all I have to say is, “bon appetit.” 

If you want to snack down on some ass elote, be my guest. I only want you to stop defending it. Capitalism is a gargantuan rabid bear. Unhinged, it stalks the countryside, and some of us would like to put it out of its misery before it’s too late. There are others who recognize its potential, and they’ve convinced you to mosey on over and try to harness it to their plow. The people of America willingly throw themselves into its foaming mouth if it means they have even the slightest chance of yoking it. Do the handful who think they’ve succeeded realize what they’ve just tied themselves to?

Difficulties abound, I understand why you might want to fly under the radar. I don’t blame you for not hoisting the flag of revolution. It would be very Jim Jones of me to even suggest it.

Just don’t grin with your teeth full of the corn some hedge fund manager doesn’t remember eating and say, “Thank you sir, may I have another.” I don’t even care if you’re too afraid not to choke it down. I’ll likely have what you’re having. Just don’t gag it down and tell me it was filet mignon.