David Buckel, suicidal environmentalist flamer (literally) sets himself on fire in Brooklyn.

David Buckel, renowned homo rights attorney and extremely concerned environmentalist citizen, died in a blaze of liberal irony as his dying statement in refutation of fossil fuels involved setting himself on fire with said fuel.   Clever, even in death.

I guess that’s a statement, for people who give a shit.

Some may say Buckel’s death was poignant, a call to arms.

I call it self-inflicted culling of the herd.  Perhaps this will be the start of a new trend.

 

Nothing of value lost

 

 

A nationally known advocate for gay rights and the environment died Saturday in a fiery Prospect Park suicide, with his self-immolation meant as a wake-up call to save the planet.

The charred remains of David Buckel, 60, were discovered shortly after sunrise when firefighters responded to a 6:40 a.m. blaze in the southwest corner of the sprawling Brooklyn park.

“My name is David Buckel and I just killed myself by fire as a protest suicide,” read a hand-written suicide note left near the blackened circle of burned grass. “I apologize to you for the mess.”

A second, longer note — left with the first inside an envelope marked “For the police” — said Buckel doused himself in “fossil fuel” before starting the fatal fire as a metaphor for the destruction of the planet.

“My early death by fossil fuel reflects what we are doing to ourselves,” he wrote. “A lifetime of service may best be preserved by giving a life . . . Honorable purpose in life invites honorable purchase in death.

“I hope it is an honorable death that might serve others.”

He compared his macabre demise with the suicides of those who set themselves afire to protest China’s occupation of Tibet.

 
 Sure buddy, whatever.  This is not China and no one cares about fossil fuels.   Your metaphorical sacrifice is just another wayward suicide in a world of dead souls.

 

And one less annoying lefty for us to endure.   I call it a win.

 

 

Generalizations about women at work.

It’s been a while since I’ve graced the doorway of my old “Generalization Chronicles” blog device. I had fun with it, and being that I haven’t written an installment for seven years, how about now…

This is the archetype (which is nothing but a generalization, of course, but sounds so much prettier and supercilious): middle-aged value-transferring woman, probably single, redolent of curt ambition suffocated under the frantic chaos of impatience and eye-rolling, racing through the corporate halls, engulfed in the rat maze of self-importance.

A woman, 30-50, fixates on the beacon of ingratiated self-fulfillment, something the female paradigm that suffuses the hierarchy in the modern corporate workplace perpetuates. Not only because women have advanced in the workplace and corporate America, but also because most managerial men are married and emasculated by a strictly feminine home life, or homosexual, and lamely exert the weak resistance of a woman with a penis, and nothing more. These social sets shape and mold the psyche of the modern workforce. Spastic women rush around, speed of gait inversely proportional to humility. Faux empowerment that only holds water here, behind the HR-delineated safe barriers of Xxxxxx, Incorporated. Queens of the hallways and conference rooms. Simpering male counterparts deferring to a constant barrage of ill-begotten female respectability and averting stares behind trendy prissy coiffures, timid, afraid of affronting HR strictures, a touchy-feely environment of blandness and innocuousness. A happy land of female striving and the female co-worker, always, the same brand…species.

Edge of bitterness curls on the downward slant of her pursed lips, she is never completely grouchy, but never happy, either.  On the spectrum of happy/mad, she lingers closer to the mad zone of existence. A smidgen unhappy, unpleasant, a whole lot impatient. Why is it that impatience and horrible communication skills seem conjoined in the human arsenal?  Such women enjoy talking to the point of intellectual dissipation; talk, talk, talk, about nonsense, food, celebrity fucking, personal family drama, but when the instance arises for the need of real communication, real conveyance of information conducive to getting the job done, there is nothing. A desert of information, these women bring to the table. It’s as if grandiose impatience dictates that imparting information is a waste of time when it’s implied that everyone in their general vicinity should be utterly capable of telepathy. Unable to trouble themselves with simple communication skills, they flutter about judgmentally and sentence those incapable of keeping up with their imaginary psychic demands of idiocy. And they talk about idiots amid estrogenic clusters of like-minded disreputes, gluttons weakly over bubbling plates of food.

Such women, despite their furious refusal to succumb to standard (traditional) female roles, are overruled by emotive thinking, and all responses and reactions are painted by subjectivity and capriciousness. Feelings of the moment propel dialog and action. Analysis and thought are not important, not valued, and even blatantly ignored. Piercing, cold analysis and objective elemental interpretations are not emotional, romantic or interesting to the collective female mind, and as this hive-mind reigns and defines the workplace, those who indulge in masculine thought processes are shunned as unglamorous and stodgy.

Women rule the modern corporate workplace, and the path we are headed down is one of indirection and ethereal incoherence of action.  Meetings, talking, and emotive reaction spell our future.

Young men, if you want to reclaim, grasp, your dwindling masculinity, learn a trade or manual skill that has not been obliterated by robotics (or won’t be in the near future), for in the act of creation you will distance yourself from the oppressive pall of womanly impulsiveness .