We’ve Become So Politically Correct It’s Turning Our Brains Into Bacon
I am not by nature a backward-looking man -- indeed, I generally embrace the future with the greatest enthusiasm.
Self-driving cars are fine by me, and I appreciate the contribution to pop music of the vocoder as much as the next man.
But lately there have been times, I cannot deny, when I find myself yearning for the simpler times of yesteryear. A time when to be woke meant only that our alarm clock was working. A time when the words “PC gone mad” suggested nothing more sinister than the local bobby running nude through the streets shooting at invisible squirrels.
I long for those happy times, because today’s climate of burdensome censoriousness has caused me to feel a deep weariness in my bones.
Where did our elders go wrong? Putting fluoride in the water? Allowing us to listen to Human Nature? Who can say?
What is certain, though, is that we have reached a level of prudish, panicky, petulant hand-wringing that is not only destructive to our culture, but I believe is literally starting to eat away our brains.
Let us look first at the issue of bacon. Specifically, the bringing home thereof.
For generations it has been the accepted mode of vernacular to refer to a person successfully providing for their family, or achieving their material goals, as “bringing home the bacon”.
However, this handy little figure of speech has been fingered as problematic by PETA, the world’s peak body for nude supermodels demanding everyone else give up cheese. PETA suggests that, in our inevitable evolution towards becoming a race of lettuce fetishists, we instead say “bringing home the bagels”.
Also, rather than “kill two birds with one stone”, we should say “feed two birds with one scone”. Instead of “beat a dead horse”, we should say “feed a fed horse”. Instead of “be the guinea pig”, “be the test tube”. Etcetera.
This, PETA avers, will bring our language about animals in line with society’s more enlightened views on racist and sexist language.
There’s much to unpack here, obviously, and not just in terms of recommended dosage. First of all we must consider the implication that, if “bringing home the bacon” is equivalent to racial slurs, saying it is somehow causing offence to pigs.
Secondly, we have to consider the fact that feeding two birds with one scone isn’t very remarkable and in fact if you want to feed two birds, more than one scone would be excessive.
And lastly, let’s acknowledge that a dead horse’s troubles are over and beating it is a harmless exercise, while feeding a horse that is already full could be very damaging to its health -- why does PETA wish us to adopt such cruelty? Does PETA in fact endorse the force-feeding of helpless animals?
Well frankly, PETA can have my bacon mentions when they pry them from my cold dead lips.
If anything, this is likely to cause people to start saying “bacon” even MORE often. The dystopia that awaits, where everywhere you go people are screaming the names of cured meats at each other just to establish their independence of thought, does not bear thinking about.
Yet already I am feeling the urge to increase my use of anti-animal language myself. Just this morning I called a magpie a dickhead, and five minutes ago I told my cat to go back where it came from. I’m not proud of this, but a man has to fight back when political correctness hammers at the barricades.
Let’s not single out PETA, though. This particular societal octopus has myriad tentacles, and no crevice is safe from its probing.
Look at music, which is now so infested by virtue signalling that Jimi Hendrix must be turning in his grave. At Princeton, the a cappella group the Tigertones have bowed to demands they stop performing the song “Kiss The Girl” from Disney’s Little Mermaid, because of its problematic nature.
The song, its critics claim, is offensive not just because it’s sung by a Jamaican crab, thus perpetuating the stereotype that all crustaceans are of Afro-Caribbean descent, but because in the movie it is sung to encourage the character of Prince Eric to make an uninvited sexual advance upon the little mermaid Ariel.
I am disgusted by this development, because I am a father.
I have a son, and I do not want him growing up in a world where he is not permitted to initiative physical affection with a beautiful mute who has lost her voice due to the spell of an evil sea witch.
In fact, if my boy ever does meet a pleasant young lass whose lack of conversation is due to a Faustian pact entered into in order to transform her fish tail into human legs, I hope he does lean in for a quick pash, and I will be proud of the lad if he does.
But without the song to teach him the way to go about it, how will he ever learn?
Apparently “Kiss The Girl” is going the way of “Baby It’s Cold Outside”, the beloved seasonal classic that is being pulled from playlists willy-nilly due to the perception that it’s about date rape.
But it’s not the song’s fault that Dean Martin was super-creepy -- the song itself is in fact a delightful little bit of musical flirtation between two people who have the red-hot quivering thigh-sweats for each other, and are engaged in collaborating on a convincing alibi to explain to the prudish society of the day why they spent the night in the same log cabin.
This is perfectly obvious to any fair-minded listener, and frankly anyone who says otherwise is denying Doris Day’s sexual agency and is therefore aggressively anti-feminist.
We have to stand firm against this creeping wowserism. If we let them take away our idioms and our Disney songs, what’s next? Banning the Grinch for nudity? Boycotting Marvel movies because Tony Stark won’t recycle his Iron man suits? Burning Famous Five books in Federation Square? OK, that last one sounds pretty good, but still.
The point is, worrying about what’s in a song, or whether our phraseology is bigoted against animals, or whether letting children watch Labyrinth will give them inferiority complexes about the size of their groin bulges (not yet, but just you wait), can’t we focus on the big issues?
War. Starvation. Climate change. Those ads for funeral insurance where old people rejoice over their impending death.
Once we’ve solved those problems, THEN we can move on to questions of porcine racism and animated shellfish perverts.
But personally I’m happy living in a world where I can bring home the bacon, kiss the girl and persuade women to sleep with me through suggestive meteorology.
I hope I’m long dead before that world passes away.