Anonymole – apocryphal agitators

Since you saw fit to draw me back into the loop of pointlessly pointed pontification, I am going to employ a more fitting approach in the composition of my reply.  This new approach involves even less effort than what was required for any of my past correspondence, as I didn’t even write a draft or formulate any ideas for this one, I just accessed your site and started typing.

I wonder what I’ll say?

There was a recent pseudo-scientific article on CNN advising people to accept their mediocrity in order to eliminate the shame and stress of striving for impossible goals.  This, of course, caught my attention right away but unfortunately, the amateur psychologist that authored it lost his nerve right at the end and added the seemingly obligatory disclaimer “…of course, one must strive to be the best they can be” and that’s when I realized that despite the compelling headline, this guy somehow missed his own point.

If it can be said that I have a goal or purpose in life, it is to master effortless mediocrity.  It isn’t a lack of self-confidence that keeps my sights low, but an actual desire to expend as little effort as possible in the maintenance of a nearly responsibility-free lifestyle.  Do you know what happens to great people when they die?  History’s great masters and geniuses?  The brilliant innovators and movers of society and culture?  They become compost, just like us.  That being said, what the hell is the point of all that expenditure of precious energy?

The slow moving creatures of the world are truly the elite on the Tree of Life.  When you remove human arrogance from the equation (which would, of course, result in a mountain of bullshit colossal enough to Fill Houston), the only measure of an organism’s “success” is its adeptness at survival.  This is why the noble sloth has an average lifespan of three decades compared to the exuberant and enthusiastic dog, which has an average lifespan of one decade.  But the mighty tortoise reigns supreme, slogging along at its sub-leisurely pace for over a century.  See a pattern here?

Regardless, humanity at large has been so conditioned in the opposite direction that my championing of the average is usually met by one of two responses: patronizing amusement or straight up anger.  The latter response is the result of someone so indoctrinated by the Cult of Effort that he or she is incapable of relaxing their standards in the naive hope of achieving “greatness”.  Thus oriented, a willful slacker like myself represents to them the most offensive and threatening kind of person alive.

Writing is something I do if/when it’s fun.  I am never going to be famous, renowned or even published and that’s not just okay with me, it’s exactly the way I like it.  I don’t create outlines or multiple drafts or any of that stuff that was invented to take all the fun out of the written word.  The reason I continue to write is no different than the reason I continue to watch three hour blocks of cartoons on Adult Swim every night while taking copious bong hits.  Sometimes it’s fun, often it’s relaxing, but what it never is is important.  As soon as something becomes important, I avoid it like the plague.

I greatly enjoyed your take on our current case of The Plague, incidentally.  Stocks plummeting is a beautiful thing.  I almost want to say that it’s an important thing, but then I’d have to go back and edit some things I already said and frankly, that doesn’t sound like any fucking fun at all.

Plague,

‘Mudge