stop persecuting ruby this instant

Daniel A. Foss (U17043@UICVM.BITNET)
Sat, 17 Feb 1996 01:38:32 CST

reducing, basically, to the single charge of deficiencies in Appropriate
Behaviour, more commonly called etiguette or, in the present instance,
"Netiquette." For years I have denounced this sort of Snobbery-Of-Those-
With-Nothing-To-Be-Snobbish-About as "the snottiness of the fork-holders."
That is, the etiquette-fiend, substantively speaking, says, "I can hold a
fork; you don't know how to hold a fork; your knowledge claims are therefore
invalidated on the grounds of your failure to demonstrate the capacity to
fade into the woodwork of the social stratum wherein, alone, Knowledge is
Known by Knowledgeable People, Knowingly. Appeals to possession of Class
shall be sternly disallowed as the intellectual analogue of building fortified
suburbs equipped with Death Squads to keep the Suspicious-looking Out or,
failing that, ethnic-cleanse such of them as manage to get in without a Pass.
Social regression, in either case.

Ruby brings us Passion. This, eo ipso, must be accorded Honourable in these
times of bloodless conformity to social hierarchy building itself a Topless
Tower to the Right. Which demands a Homeric Solution, ie, Topless Towers
should get burned down! (The variant in the Book of Genesis fails to satisfy,
since after the minority groups and immigrants unable to speak the Official
Language of Babylon got fired, the finished portion was left standing, by
implication.)

We are all the same! The more the discourse shifts into arcane quibbles
and methodological hairsplitting in critiquing the most extreme doctrines
of the Racist Right, the Reactionary Right, and the Religious Right, the
more this fundamental starting point for imagining any alternatives is
obliterated from awareness. I'm so lowdown these days, frankly, I have
the greatest difficulty saying, Even Me! But it still goes. This year of
the last Presidential Election of the Republic is, however, the year of
my People: 1996 is Paranoid Awareness Year, and I can say, I'm Paranoid
and I'm Proud. It's a necesity of life. When I got mugged in a CTA station
Saturday night, I knew I'd've been in Much Bigger Trouble from the police
than I was from the muggers. I lucked out.

When I think back to four years ago, when I first met you, or your
ancestors, there was nothing for Our People. Today, there's a sprawling
network of Paranoids For Total Fear Mutual Support Groups and Ethnic Pride
Associations. There is Paranoid Central, in a secret location known only
to Them, working round the clock to *prevent* assassinations. When the
heroine of the Clinton Assassination detection and exposure, Janie X. (for
No Name, No Self) Johnson, on Jan 20, 1993, Inauguration Day, a full 300 lbs,
died of anorexia nervosa on Aug 12 of the same year, Hillary said, "Were it
not for the fanatical determination of Janie Johnson to be worthy of my
husband, I'd be another Jackie today. Every life has its little disappoint-
ments, I suppose; so I'll just have to get on with the dreary routine
business of being First Lady for years to come, I suppose <sigh>." We
dared not claim credit at that time; we leaked it that the major plotters
figured, why bother with *him*, anyway. In retrospect, the plausibility of
this myth has become greater daily.

No longer to Paranoids skulk about, fearful of "giving away my position."
We hold the banner high at Pride Parades, still held in backyards, it's true.
Except, of course, for the annual Aug 12 rally at Janie Johnson's tomb, which
adorns the cover of the new, expanded, updated, and more profusely than ever
illustrated edition of A History Of The Paranoid Peoples. In conclusion [loud
cheers] let me reiterate <yawn><oh no> once again, "If all we had to fear is
fear itself, then we must fear that, or we should have Nothing to fear!"

This just in: The United Front of Paranoids and Neutopians was formed at
11pm Thursday night, Chicago time, with a coded message on lizzy's answering
machine: "I'm real tired, gotta pass out right now." Also involved is my old
friend Al, the mathematician, you remember him, who is once more unemployed
in a major center of learning, Berkeley. The three hardest-core-unemployables
in the nation are united in mutual fear, suspicion, and not-on-speaking-terms.
We shall fight on till whoever wins, or the frustrated losers, cruelly murder
us; we're already illegal.

The stuggle continues, we don't know why, we no longer care.

Daniel A. Foss