Let My Politics Ride Your Corpse

There have been many instances of breathtaking feats of human stupidity and very often the best response is to simply ignore them. After all, everyone has an opinion and everyone's opinion is wrong to someone. This would have been my response had we not recently reached such an unprecedented nadir in ignorance as to be actively insulting to the memory of the dead.

As of this writing Star Wars icon Carrie Fisher recently passed away due to a heart attack, tragically followed by her mother Debbie Reynolds who suffered a stroke. Two incredibly talented, famous women who were loved all across the world. Tributes and kind words from friends and fans flooded in and seemingly no one had a bad word to say about them.

Except apparently for actor Steve Martin...

His words on Twitter were thus “When I was a young man, Carrie Fisher she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. She turned out to be witty and bright as well.” It turns out that this was not a complimentary tribute to a lost friend, fondly recalling their first meeting but a terrible and offensive sexist remark, implying Carrie Fisher was nothing more than a sex object.

Much like the time Faux-Feminists decided Dr Matt Taylor's choice of shirt was more important than the historic landing of a NASA probe on a comet in space, the professionally outraged seem to overlook the reaffirming outpouring of love and sympathy for the late Ms Fisher and instead become transfixed on painting a target onto someone and making the inevitable, faultless yet horrible spectre of death a personal political issue.

My question is this. Do you really believe that was Steve Martin's intention? Do you honestly think amidst all this positive sharing of grief he meant to suddenly interject with hateful or offensive remarks? Let's re-examine his actual wording because I can see where people have planted their implied sexist undertones even though it is cataclysmically moronic to do so.

“She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.” I will give them the benefit of the doubt and say they are not suggesting that calling a woman beautiful is sexist because if you think that you need professional mental help. Calling her a creature could be considered offensive. She's not a creature after all, she's a human...But what are humans? Well, mammals, animals and creatures.

How often are the words beautiful and creature put together in an offensive way? Is it not more likely he is expressing that her beauty surpassed mere human standards and was in fact more beautiful than all the living creations on the planet. Does that not seem like a kind sentiment someone might say about the recently deceased?

“She turned out to be witty and bright as well.” I imagine this is where people think the subliminal insult lies. What you seem to be reading is “I was surprised she turned out to be witty and bright as well.” implying it is rare for women to be intelligent and funny as well as attractive. Except he didn't say that, did he? He said “she turned out to be” which simply means taking place after the preceding statement.

When you first meet a person the first thing we judge them on is their appearance. That's human nature. It is difficult to ascertain someone's personality from sight alone. If you initiate a conversation you will likely learn a bit about their personality, perhaps that they are witty and bright for example. Unless you walk blindfolded into a room looking for hands to shake, learning of someone's personality always comes after seeing their appearance.

Do you genuinely believe that Steve Martin wasn't simply recounting a fond memory of their first meeting together? Are you so blind to normal human speech patterns and context clues that you think this was a sleazy sexist remark?

I expect a rebuttal to this might be that it is irrelevant whether Steve Martin intended to say something sexist but the fact it could be interpreted as such is worthy of outrage by itself. In the constantly shifting ocean of cultural standards, the outraged faux-feminists who pointed out Martin's mistake so enthusiastically that he deleted his message, are simply ensuring that the outdated belief of women's appearance being more important than their personality does not ever take root in some young impressionable mind who might happen upon this tweet.

The offended are the only ones giving this idea power. For an idea to hold any power to change perceptions or prejudices it must be believed. The idea that Gordon Ramsey is actually a sophisticated robot who lived on the sun and dispenses spinach and Soviet political manifestos at hourly intervals who is only here to secretly tickle penguins is an idea no one believes. This idea therefore has no power to change anything because it is obviously absurd.

Most people with half a brain can recognise the context of Steve Martin's comments, the history of his reactions and opinions and not believe that he intended any ill will or base objectifications. It is obvious he was merely paying tribute to a lost friend or admired colleague, as had many other celebrities. The only people who believe otherwise are the ones potentially afraid of an underlying sexist ideology taking hold in people's minds. No one else interpreted the message as such however so these people are entirely creating their own problem.

So if the professionally offended continue giving this idea power there is in fact a chance someone else impressionable will happen upon it and believe it. The idea is so baseless and devoid of logic however that it might be interpreted in any number of ways as I listed above. Perhaps that calling a woman beautiful is sexist or the phrase “turned out” is a hateful and offensive remark, upon which conversations like this might occur. 

“I spent three hours trying to find a parking space, turned out there was one right by the entrance.”

“You sexist pig.”

You probably think this is a ludicrous leap in logic but when there is no logic involved who can tell where absurdity might lead in further absurdity. People try to spark outrages like this increasingly often and usually with the same lack of evidence but to do so mere days after someone's premature death goes beyond annoying and self-righteous. You are actively hijacking someone's death in order to push a political agenda and even if you had a scrap of substance to back your claims that would still be a deeply shallow, selfish and disrespectful act.

If you truly care about someone's passing, celebrity or not, you would not speak on their behalf, you would not create further misery out of nothing amidst an already distressing event and you wouldn't justify it all by masquerading as a political progressive when in fact all you are is a vulture.

Chapter Nine: “Contents May Vary” 17. 12. 2016

The pattering of the rain against the metal roof of the train carriage was far less comforting now Darren knew it would gladly peel the skin from his face in an instant. Myriad loaded up a selection of history mods on her bridge and indulged Darren in any questions he might have, since they were stuck inside the carriage for the unforeseeable future.

The shockingly familiar branding of TESCO on his otherwise quite alien new drink was his first line of enquiry and the answers revealed that modern life was now entirely catered for by three major companies: Tesco, Google and Xygon. The first two being hugely expanded from a mere supermarket and search engine respectively and the third, more recent company, despite now being the world's leading tech giant started its business as a humble pizza takeaway.

After wrapping his head around the idea of “Tesco-Value Nurseries” and the “Google Military”. Darren realised he had been rudely holding his gifted drink like a slack-jawed monkey and decided to take a drink from the bottle. A decision, it became evident, he took far too casually as an almighty surge of frighteningly potent sensations rushed through his body.

He couldn't even take note of how the liquid tasted before he began shivering and mentally preparing to die. The new flood of feeling was not exactly painful however. After a few seconds it struck him as invigorating, bringing forth a wave of energy, clarity, motivation and pleasure within him, the likes of which he'd never experienced before.

He finally shook himself from the experience, unsure if his blurred vision was now due to the fading effects of his abductor's blinding device or his eyes had transcended dimension and he was now looking at himself from the outside.

“Woeughal...Buh, what the hell is in this?” Myriad was trying to conceal an amused smirk.

“I actually gave you one of the weaker flavours.” Darren scans the sparsely detailed label on the bottle.

“Is it alcoholic?”

“Pass it here.” Darren leans over and hands her the bottle, wobbling slightly and becoming increasingly concerned about what the beverage's ingredients have done to him. Myriad turns the bottle in her hand and pauses looking at a blank part of the label.

“This one's not alcoholic. Could've been any number of things that caused your little jitter-fit though.”

“How do you know that? There's basically nothing on the label.” Myriad passes the drink back to Darren who cautiously takes it as though handling a dented grenade.

“There's pages of ingredients and legal shit on there, you just need a bridge to see it. They couldn't print it all on the actual bottle.”

“So the ingredients are basically written in invisible ink? That's kind of fucked up.”

“Eh” Myriad shrugs nonchalantly and takes a long guzzle from her own bottle. She shifts on the bench seating, pushing her bag up against the far wall and resting her head against it.

“So what is in it?” Asks Darren glancing between Myriad and the selectively blank part of the bottle's label. Myriad sits up and throws her bag from behind her to down by her feet.

“I dunno what it was that kicked your colour, might've been the glucose in it, the caffeine, climbspon, cocaine-”

Darren spits his tentative second swig across the train carriage floor.

“Did you say cocaine?” He choked, wiping his chin and shirt.

“It might not have been that, it could have been the heroin.” Myriad adds reassuringly. Darren gawps in disbelief like a slack-jawed monkey. Myriad begins scratching her arm and restlessly crossing and uncrossing her legs.

“There's drugs in the drinks now?”

“You'll have to define what you mean by drugs. Everything's at least partially made of drugs.”

“Like, illegal, dangerous drugs that people die from.”

“They're hazardous sure but not really dangerous unless you're a moron. If they start to fuck up your insides you just get new ones. Also, definitely not illegal, they sell UNSH fucking everywhere.”

Darren blinks aggressively.

“You get new what? Insides? You can just do that...That's gotta be expensive even by crazy future standards?”

Myriad notices herself scratching her arm and leaving marks and slaps her own hand away. She swings her legs around off the seat and faces Darren leaning back against the wall.

“If you go for premium quality cloned human stuff then it's pretty sad prices yeah but most people just get mechanical replacements.” She lifts up her shirt to the lower half of her ribcage and the skin appears steel blue and pale. After a few seconds of squinting, Darren's repeatedly tampered with eyesight notices the metallic colour belies actual metal faintly visible beneath the skin.

“This is my fourteenth liver I think...I'm on like my eighth pair of lungs too...I kind of lose track to be honest.”

Darren remembers the similar markings on his abductor Wentworth, although his seemed far cruder with almost no effort made to hide the metal. It could have even been bare and exposed with no skin covering it. Darren had moved his gaze to the window of the train but he spots in his peripheral vision that Myriad is still holding her shirt up and gazing at her aforementioned replacement liver. Darren quickly returns his sight to the window suddenly feeling more than a little awkward in particularly awkward places.

Something about Myriad's personality seemed different. For the short time he had known her she had been terrifyingly perceptive and defensive despite a certain apathetic tone. Why was she now keeping herself exposed in front of him? Granted it was the less erotic half of her torso but at this point in Darren's prolonged stale love-life, a scandalous Victorian-era flash of ankle could probably get him going. Perhaps it is just this future's relaxed nature about sex and nudity. Darren fretted and felt that this in particular would take some getting used to.

“So yeah so there's all kinds of fucking crazy fuck in drinks and food now everywhere here now, it's pretty bleak to be honest, you probably shouldn't have too much of anything any before too you can register you at a chop shop and we can't do that or anything any time any soon 'cos of your stalker abductor people, gotta stay off any public servers, this making sense? tell me if it's not making sense 'cos I don't wanna just be wasting my ime-time t-here.” Darren waits a moment before answering if only to give Myriad a chance to breathe.

“They're not really called chop shops are they?”

“Nah, none that I've been to round anyway, nearest one I normally go always down to is SomeOfIt'sParts, pretty bleak there. Is it municipal? is it still raining? did you ask a question? what's the next question? hurry der-the fuck up, why are you still so quiet all of the sudden?” Darren looks back at Myriad who's finally let go of her shirt but is fidgeting like an electrified hamster with a jack-hammer. She squints and then opens her eyes wide before tapping an unintelligible rhythm on her lap with her hands.

“Are you feeling alright?” Myriad's eye twitches and she looks at Darren quizzically. There is a considerable pause with the rainfall alone puncturing the silence and only serving as an ambient drum-roll to heighten Darren's anxiety. Myriad finally turns away and makes some gestures as her bridge's visor flips across her eyeline and different screens appear on its surface. She pauses and lets her arms fall to her sides. Her hands are rapidly tapping the nearest surface but apart from this she remains almost motionless.

After an unsettling half a minute in which Darren is unsure if something fatal has happened or if speaking to her would provoke something fatal happening to him, Myriad's hands start to slow the pace of their tapping. Her eyes move down to look at the gradually decreasing twitches until after around ten seconds she pivots on her seat back to face Darren, avoiding eye contact and looking quietly aggravated. An expression that is subtly new to Darren as until now the only thing Myriad has been quite open and relaxed about displaying is her anger.

“Drank mine too fast.” She eventually says, in a far more familiar and downbeat tone. Darren smiles in baffled relief.

“So what on Earth is in yours then?” He asks with a chuckle. Myriad seems to grind her teeth together and pushes a strand of hair back behind her ear before looking at the ingredients of her orange labelled bottle of UNSH.

“Fuckin' amphetamines.” She growls. “They added that since I last had it. Used to just be MDMA and Tripaplin.”

“Wow.” remarks Darren.

Myriad scratches her forehead, frustrated at her own embarrassment. She clears her throat and looks outside.

“Well the acid rain's stopped.” She states, attempting to change the subject. Darren is leaning forward, amused by Myriad's frenetic phase and also relieved it wasn't in fact a coma. He glances outside briefly but turns back promptly, unable to resist the refreshing enjoyment of someone else being the centre of humiliation for once.

“So what happened there? You got an implant or something that can counteract drug highs?” He asks with a grin.

Myriad sighs and glares through the top of her eyes at him.

“Not an implant, it's just come-down drugs. Injected, like everything else through the bridge into your blood or your brain.” She points to the pebble-like devices on her temples used to initiate the bridge visor.

She squints and chews her cheek, clearly uncomfortable with being on the back foot. “The scrubber will probably have the street safe in about twenty, forty minutes. Are all of your questions going to be shit-circuited and fucking beverage based?” Darren drops his grin and withdraws upon confirmation that Myriad is completely back to her usual prickly self.