Abuse of Language

“They were filthy, unlawful rioters,” he said.

“But you weren’t?”

“No,” he said. “Ours wasn’t a riot. Ours was a mere skirmish.”

“A skirmish instead of a riot? Though people were threatened and people died and property was destroyed and laws were broken?”

“Yes,” he said. “Ours was a skirmish. A dustup. Which is why we’re not rioters, we’re patriots.”

“What distinguishes the two?” I asked.

“Mostly the justness of the cause.”

“So yours was just?”

“Of course,” he said. “A patriot and hero would never fight for an unjust cause.”

“The rioters believe their cause is as just as yours,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “But they are wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they are rioters. Rioters riot while patriots fight for justice.”

“You have told me you hate political correctness,” I said. “You have told me you hate that sort of misuse and abuse of language.”

“Yes,” he said. “I abhor politically correct language.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s what they engage in.”

“What’s the difference between politically correct langauge and rhetoric?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“But you engage in neither?”

“Correct,” he said. “I only speak the truth.”

It was at that moment I understood how much I hated him. I understood how much I had to hate him for misusing and abusing his limited intelligence – the only thing that had come close to making him human.

But I don’t like hate. So I took a moment to reflect before blindly accepting the conclusion. I took a moment to think about the mind. I thought about intelligence. I thought about raw emotions. I thought about lusts and carnal desires. I concluded misusing and abusing his intelligence is worse than a man misusing and abusing his body. I thought about how men misuse and abuse themselves physically. I thought about the lengths men go to to fulfill their lusts and desires. I thought about booze and dope and fast food and cigarettes. I thought about the grotesqueness and absurdity of Pocket Pussies. I decided the misuse and abuse of intelligence was more beastly than fucking a piece of battery operated sucking silicone. I decided it was worse cause any beast will fuck nearly anything. But not every beast has our intelligence to use or abuse our minds at will.

This is how I decided the greater malfeasance was the abuse of the mind.

So I asked him, “Do you own a Pocket Pussy?”

“What’s a Pocket Pussy?” he asked.

“A Fleshlight,” I said. “Or any other prosthetic device you stick your dick into?”

“No,” he said.

I broke down. I began to sob.

He stepped forward to console me. He embraced me.

“If it means that much to you, I’ll get a Pocket Pussy,” he said.

And then I sobbed ever harder. I sobbed so hard I could hardly breathe.

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