Well, in Russia, every week is a week of subjective outrage. Like they say in Alaska: every day is an adventure.
Last week, we enjoyed an attack on Telegram, which is Russia’s #1 messenger now, after WhatsApp became only VPN-accessible thanks to Vlad. Plus, Telegram has zillions of free speech channels you can choose to read. It doesn’t matter what you view, what political colour are you because you can find everything there.
Now, they are attempting to wipe out Telegram. First, the Russian state tried to do it back in 2018. They enjoyed a glorious epic fail back then.
Now, they are trying to slow it down, just like YouTube. So, sometimes, you need to turn on your VPN to have normal access to Telegram.
The policy now is to switch everybody to Max, a Russian-produced messenger, FSB-sponsored. The funny thing is that even in school chats, moms are rallying against the rude and forceful switch to Max, instead of perfectly functioning WhatsApp or Telegram.
I guess, the Russian state is fast approaching the point when even the most loyal ones would be raising their voices against the authorities.
So let it be.
A week of subjective outrage
I am told, usually by Mrs B, that I am an angry man. She’s right, but I also feel… attentive, engaged, compassionate, and civically alert. Apparently, this looks, to an external observer, like shouting at the television and muttering obscenities at my iPad. The modern news cycle does that to a person. It is not designed for serenity.
This week alone offered the full international buffet. Another marathon performance from Donald Trump; two hours of bombast, grievance and statistical origami. (Did anyone actually sit through the entire State of the Union? Or were we all dipping in like it was a particularly vulgar box set?) Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, yet another well-connected British “public servant” finds himself dusted off and re-examined in the lingering fallout of the Jeffrey Epstein files. Privilege, it seems, remains the most durable passport in the Western world.
Plenty there, you must agree, to fuel righteous fury. Global hypocrisy. Political theatre. The Premiership of international incompetence. And yet……..
My greatest indignation this week came not from Washington or Westminster, but from a Facebook page in my former home of Jersey — that small, windswept jewel between England and France, nine miles by five, and perfectly capable of housing both extraordinary wealth and quiet despair. A simple post appeared:
There is a homeless man who can’t stay at the shelter. He’s living in a car park with his guitar and only the clothes on his back. Does anyone have size 32 trousers, medium tops, or a coat? He’s been failed by the system… I’d love to at least give hope.
A modest appeal. Not for policy reform. Not for a parliamentary inquiry. Just a coat. The response? Some kindness, yes. But drowned — absolutely drowned — by the sharp-elbowed certainties of the morally immaculate.
If people are turned away from the shelter it is because they are drunk or on drugs! He has not been failed by the system — he has failed himself.
Most of us manage to get a job and make a living. If he’s in a car park, that’s on him.
And on. And on. All anonymous, of course. Not one brave patriot willing to attach their name to their contempt.
This is what fascinates me about selective outrage. We can rage for hours about geopolitical corruption, rail against presidents and princes, dissect global injustice, but present us with a single shivering man in a car park and suddenly we become accountants of blame.
Before we offer a coat, we require an audit. Before compassion, a background check. I do not know how that man ended up there. Perhaps he did make catastrophic decisions. Perhaps he wrestled demons and lost. Perhaps the system failed him. Perhaps he failed himself. But since when did basic humanity become conditional?
If outrage is the currency of our age, we seem remarkably reluctant to spend even a small coin of kindness. And that, Mrs B might just agree, is something worth getting angry about.
A week of subjective outrage
In British English, being pissed means you’re drunk. In American English, being pissed means you’re angry. My entire country is pissed. This is a special kind of pissed, it’s manufactured, created by a small group of people to protect themselves from having the same responsibilities the rest of us have. Last week, I went into some detail on the topic and I’ll not cover that ground again here.
This past week, the Limeys and the Yanks were pissed about the same thing: Epstein. Except this time, it’s not fake, manufactured anger. Well, ok, we are not mad about Epstein per se, (he’s all dead and stuff); we are pissed because the rich seem to be above the law, especially in the US. Under k$h Petal (his spelling), the FBI Director, the interviews about a prime suspect, a fellow named Donald seem not to be in the transparent files. SURPRISE! We are also informed that everything has been released. There’s nothing else so stop asking. I suspect that’s true: nothing remains.
The Agents who investigate a crime will obviously interview witnesses. They fill out the results of the in-person interviews using a paper called Form 302. We know these forms are gone because they are referenced and inventoried in other places. The FBI has gone to some effort to make sure nobody can find these victims. The 302 forms have most likely been destroyed. Just one little loose end: the women are still around and unless the FBI plans to kill them there is little to stop them from speaking out.
But wait! It gets sleazier… After all, we are not British and have several more “hold my beer” moments left. The Republicans who control some committees in Congress are calling only Democrats and Trump’s enemies to explain their relationships to Jeffery. Bill Clinton will give a video-taped deposition today. Test me on this: by the time you read these words the Republicans will have released the video. Mmm… maybe I’m wrong; Monday’s news cycle will be better. It will be proof positive that the entire thing is a libtard lie, designed to embarrass the best President in history.
Bill Clinton? Oh please! I would be surprised if Bill didn’t know Jeffery. We can let the cat out of the cellophane bag: Clinton liked women, often. What would surprise me is to learn that Clinton was a pedo. In my book, liking women and having sex with little girls are two different things. No matter: this is proof positive the Donald never touched anybody. See? Case closed. Thank you for your attention to this matter.