We live in strange times.
It seems we like to be offended. We like to be part of some
unofficial (sometimes official) club of people offended by something or other.
We have an urge to find the underdog within us. We look for
like-minded offence-hungry people and make efforts to join them physically or
in spirit. It's a sort of a club where we feel we are not alone in our
angst, whatever form that takes. The angst can be real, imagined or manufactured
to suit whatever our motive happens to be.
Not only do we like being offended, we want
to be offended, otherwise we don't feel as if we belong to anything.
Sometimes, we go out of our way or wrack our brains to find an offending
thing that suits us, then we grab the udders and milk it for all it's worth.
We can be offended by rudeness, a remark, a
photograph, a memory, an insult, a joke, a TV show, something in the news, a
symbol, a flag, gossip, a politician, an ingredient in a recipe, a fashion
item, rich people, welfare spongers, old Tom & Jerry cartoons and on and on
and on.
But we like, no, we want to
be offended because it gives us a platform to deliver a sob story, a woe-is-me
persona, a chance to get our story in the paper or on TV. Jeez, we might
even get a series out of it - How I Got Offended & The Year It Took Me To
Get Over It.
Some media outlets love the boo-hoo celebrity
and the blubbering "ordinary" person because it attracts attention.
Some viewers/readers are sympathetic, some are apathetic and some are
offended by this blah.
Sadly, within the bandwagon of bs underdog
yarns, there will be genuine people with genuine reasons to feel hurt, betrayed
and scarred. But we might miss them in the avalanche of the
mock-desperate in search of recognition.
What offends me? Well, just never get stuck
in a lift with me. It could be a long night.
No comments:
Post a Comment