There is a repugnant phenomenon deeply ingrained in our society, glaring and conspicuous in its disregard for sensibility and lack thereof. We constantly abide by the grim spectacle of this odious monster, parading with audacity in all its grotesqueness, despised and abhorred by all, and yet, in an inverted display of total illogic, welcomed and embraced to serve the hour.
In its royal progress, the King-of-the-hour flits from place to place with a vainglorious swagger and an enormous holler, demanding nothing but utter capitulation, total surrender to its viewpoint. It approaches all disputes with extreme prejudice — its opinions born of a nightmare version of egotistical introspection — prancing about and bellowing its unpopular catchphrases: I am right; you are wrong. Or, you know nothing, so you must keep quiet and listen to me.
Having built his kingdom on a throne of polemics, our Monster-king raises controversies at every corner, gruesome statues of classical exultation. He jettisons every opposition; and why should he not? Only the submissive may serve. His realm is only for the obsequious; only the servile may enter his golden gates. Here and there he moves as he pleases, lashing about his salivary whip, tottering with the weight of his heavy apparel; for he clads himself in the richest and grandest manner he can think of — unsurprisingly: he thinks himself supreme.
In his boundless appetite for domination, he insists on victory in every strife; his crusades do not fail — no room for failure. It is his insatiable desire to sit at the acme of success, though it come to be built of bones. Sitting atop his bloodstained pile, he feasts on the remains — his prized assets — munching on the bones with a sickening crunch. The King-of-the-street does not care whom he hurts; his boots glory at the sight of crushed toes. Though the drains be clogged and the streets flooded with his enormous spittle, he never thinks twice about his ceaseless chanting: I must win; I must win this argument. Yet, though so twisted and deformed, so unloved, so ugly to behold, this disagreeable monster is cuddled by all.
I am right; you are wrong. You know nothing, so you must keep quiet and listen to me. They hurt to hear, but are a pleasure to say — only one in ten thousand do not. None appreciates being wrong, and the mirror of self-assessment is often hazy. Clouded in a delusion of rightness, people huff and puff, and argue and fight, in an incessant bid to impress their views upon others. Even upon discovery of their wrongness, they would contort the argument in a despicable attempt at face preservation.
I am right; you are wrong. You know nothing so you must keep quiet and listen to me. The Prince’s motto must be abolished, his craven empire torn down in the most inglorious manner: he must lose all support. Against his campaigns we must clog our ears with resolute modesty. We must don the cloak of self-deprecation.
The General cannot be allowed to continue his rule. If his parade may not be stopped, he must be harried. He must appear, not like a royal personage on a grand procession round his capital city, but an immense rodent, scurrying from one hole to the other, its skin ghastly brown and redolent with the sewers it calls home. The spectacle of his public displays must be dulled; abashed he must appear, the host of an open-air party ruined by a ferocious storm.
No more should the beast be detested yet employed. No more should we forget or overlook the incompleteness of our knowledge. I am right; but so too could you be. I will wait until I have heard your point. No man is a hoard of knowledge.
