And yet somehow never seem to get them. Which is a large part of the reason why they are what they are.
What exactly has birthed the Pajama Boy aristocracy — our overclass of pretentious, inexperienced, and smug 30-something masters of the universe?
Prolonged adolescence? Affluence? The disappearance of physical chores and muscular labor? The collapse of traditional liberal education and the triumph of the therapeutic mindset? Disdain for or ignorance of life outside the Boston–New York–Washington corridor? Political correctness as a sort of careerist indemnity that allows one to live a sheltered and apartheid existence? The shift in collective values and status from production, agriculture, and manufacturing to government, law, finance, and media? The reinvention of the university as a social-awareness retreat rather than a place to learn?
Well, all that, sure. But what it really comes down to is that they never got schooled in the hard lessons of reality in the way that usually leaves the most lasting impact: a good, swift belt in the mouth. Or, for that matter, a good spanking. Such would have taught these effete pantywaists any number of valuable things, including the importance of a sense of decorum and humility. Especially for weak, dweebish little footpads like themselves.
Most men in Dayton or Huntsville do not lounge around in the morning in their pajamas, with or without built-in footpads, drinking hot chocolate and scanning health-insurance policies. That our elites either think they do, or think the few that matter do, explains why a nation $20 trillion in debt envisions the battle over transgender restrooms as if it were Pearl Harbor.
In a case of life imitating art, Ethan Krupp, the Organizing for Action employee who posed for the ad, offered a self-portrait of himself that confirmed the photo image. He is a self-described “liberal f***.” “A liberal f*** is not a Democrat, but rather someone who combines political data and theory, extreme leftist views, and sarcasm to win any argument while making the opponents feel terrible about themselves,” he explains. “I won every argument but one.” I suspect that when Krupp boasts about “making opponents feel terrible about themselves,” he is referring to people of his own kind rather than trying such verbal intimidation on the local mechanic or electrician.
He’d never dream of it. He’s a smarmy, self-righteous, gutless, sniveling little pussy, and he wouldn’t dare try his little superior act in any blue-collar barroom in the world. That would get him one of those aforementioned belts in the mouth that he so desperately needs, if not a full-blown boot party out in the alley behind the joint. Which would forever remove the miserable little worm’s unearned sense of superiority in the most direct and irrefutable way, reminding him once and for all of his rightful place in the world and the absolute necessity of earning the right to a better and more honorable one. Then he’d have to go back to pretending to be a tough little dimestore dictator in internet forums and online gaming marathons with people like himself. He wouldn’t like any of that much.
For the Pajama Boys, rhetoric is everything, reality nothing.
Who hires and promotes Pajama Boys? Why, of course, Barack Obama, the Pajama Boy in Chief.
Well, naturally. He’s far more than the PJBInC. He’s their patron saint, hero, and mentor—their inspiration, and the justification for their entire worthless existence—and all too obviously a twerp of a sorry excuse for a “man” who never received one of those most useful and salutary good, swift belts in the mouth himself. Too bad, that. I’d cheerfully pay money to watch it on PPV, over and over and over again.
But what does it say about us that we’ve allowed these 98 pound weaklings to go from being objects of appropriate scorn and ridicule in Charles Atlas comic-book ads to running the whole damned country? Ah well, if Putin doesn’t straighten them out, the Moslems eventually will.