Laurence Simon wants a war on StoopidPeeple.
I can see that. Honest to god: I am at a point where I am on the edge of my seat with every new acquaintance -- no matter fleeting -- just waiting for them to reveal exactly how lame they really are, and they are everywhere, all the time.
It is going to be a long, big fight, however. Consider this:
Only yesterday, a friend and I were out running around on minor errands. At one point, we ended up at the local House of Sam. While Alan was looking at wires, I perused the DVD's on sale. What did I find but "Apocalypse Now Redux" at a reasonable price? "Cool," I said. Alan solved his cabling problem, and we headed for the checkout.
This is the part where I saw yet another thread running out of the shredding fabric of American culture.
I handed the DVD to the upright Holstein behind that counter, and she began to ring it up, as she asked me for ID.
(blink) "Why?" Extremely confused, I couldn't even believe, at first, that she was talking to me, but she was.
"For any age-restricted material, I absolutely have to see identification."
Now, dear reader... if you're not a Holstein, yourself, then perhaps you can readily distinguish the implications of, say, obviously gray hairs in my beard, when it's less than three feet away from your face.
And I could go on with this line about the ghastly charade of a forty-seven year-old man having to refer to the goddamned State of New York in order to prove what is manifestly obvious to human beings in an ordinary glance, but that is not my point here. (Let it suffice to say that I am still without that forty-nine minutes of footage added to Coppola's opus. I left it right there where the cow was standing.)
The thing is this: while I was obviously dealing with a cow, the more serious concern should be taken with her herders: the sanctimonious idiocrats in their flourescent cubicles who lean on her to moo on cue.
Verily: the StoopidPeeple are being bred and groomed everywhere around us all the live-long day. They are being positively cultured to not think, or even consider the evidence right in front of their dim, beady, eyes.
That's where the real fight is, and it's going to be a bitch.