SOCIOPATHS UNITE!

Here’s another one by Phil Watts about my not-so-favorite candidate, Donald Trump. Keep them coming, Phil, because I’m enjoying your take on this election!

By Phil Watts, guest columnist

Fellow sociopaths, we’re finally close to achieving the recognition we deserve. Although we make up at least 4 percent of the population, we’ve never had a U.S. President. Forty three men have served in this capacity, which means if we had been fairly represented, 1.7 of them should have been one of us. Some Presidents have matched some of our criteria, but realistically we can’t claim any one to be an unmitigated sociopath. This year can be different; we have someone running under the dual Republican/Sociopath banner who’s the real McCoy.

The race looks to be tight. We need every single vote to be sure we don’t miss this once-in-a-227-year opportunity. Let your voice be heard; make sure every sociopath you know has a yard sign and a bumper sticker proudly proclaiming “Sociopaths for Trump.”

I want you to be prepared in the event some aren’t convinced he meets our standards. Wikipedia, as you know, defines us as “having a personality disorder characterized by persistent antisocial behavior, impaired empathy, and bold, disinhibited egotistical traits.” The vast majority of voters will immediately recognize that Wikipedia must have had our gifted candidate in mind when they wrote this definition.

For the few remaining doubters, refer them to any of his remarks quoted in the media. If they insist on specifics, tell them about his put-down of America’s best-known war hero, or show them a video of him mocking a reporter with a disability, or mention the numerous demeaning remarks he has made about women, Mexicans, and Muslims. Just about any serious Sociopath should recognize that only a person who is truly one of our kind could be capable of the impaired empathy and antisocial behavior exhibited by these examples.

As for the bold, disinhibited egotistical traits, they could listen to five minutes of any of his speeches and count the number of times he says “I” or “Donald Trump” or uses self-aggrandizing descriptions of himself. That should convince anyone he’s 100 percent Sociopath.

In the event you encounter a purist who might still doubt his authenticity, I have the clincher for you. Just a few days ago our man dealt the coup de grace that will quell any lingering questions. This Muslim couple lost a son, a U.S. Marine captain who had been killed in Iraq, and they had the audacity to question whether Mr. Trump had ever sacrificed anything. He replied that he certainly had; that he had successfully invested a lot of money in his life.

Putting these know-nothings in their place like that would have been gratifying enough for most Sociopaths. But our man Donald is not just any run-of-the-mill Sociopath; he then really showed his stuff and put the hammer down on their arrogance. Who could be more vulnerable than a mother grieving over the loss of her son? He brilliantly recognized the opportunity and scrubbed her wound with a little salt. (Insert a Kapow emoji!)

You have to be awed at his quick thinking. In just a few words he insulted all Gold Star families, every veteran who has ever served and sacrificed for our country, every patriotic American, and all women everywhere. Beautiful! I get goosebumps as I write about it.

Even a hard core Sociopath would have to admit the above is a perfect example of impaired (nonexistent) empathy and extreme antisocial behavior. He knew the exchange would damage him with the vast majority of voters who can experience empathy for others; but our man Donald chose to show his creds as a true blue Sociopath no matter the cost to himself.

Fellow Americans, there’s no reason every proud Sociopath shouldn’t cast his vote for our man in November. This is our chance; let’s not blow it. Voters want change; we can give them real change; electing a Sociopath as leader of the free world is change you can believe in.

Sociopaths Installing Crazies Committee  (SICCO)

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ARE YOU OFFENDED YET?

Please don’t call me a hussy or I will be very angry. Don’t call me a courtesan, either.


By Jacque White Kochak

I’ve been thinking about pejoration lately.

I’m glad I haven’t used the word “Oriental” in years, because when I wasn’t looking this innocent word morphed into an offensive term for Asians. I was unaware of this inexorable shift, as I tend to think of Oriental as meaning Eastern. Occidental has not undergone such a shift, so I was taken by surprise. Fortunately, my consciousness was raised one afternoon as I listened to NPR and an earnest young woman talked about her father’s Chinese restaurant. She made a good case, so I’ll be on my best behavior.

‘But see, here’s the thing. Illegal alien and undocumented immigrant mean exactly the same thing.’

Thank heavens, I have long been aware that “wetback” is a totally unacceptable name for Mexicans who crossed the Rio Grande without benefit of papers, although in the 1950s, when I was a very young girl, President Dwight David Eisenhower made the inexcusable mistake of including this insulting term in the name of a quasi-military search-and-seizure operation aimed at illegal immigrants (remember “Operation Wetback”?). Umm, make that undocumented aliens. No wait, I forgot, “aliens” is not nice. Undocumented immigrants, that’s it—for now, at least. Apparently  Ike missed the memo.

I have to keep up with these things, because as a journalist I’m supposed to know AP style. For the uninitiated, that’s the style preferred by the Associated Press. Knowing AP style is a way to ensure consistency, so the reader isn’t subjected to the annoyance of things like the period that ends a sentence being isolated outside the closing quotation marks. I’m enough of a true believer that I cringe at such an abomination, and AP style says undocumented immigrant is acceptable.

Back to the subject at hand: Missing the memo these days, in the time of Twitter and Facebook, can be a very serious thing. One slip of the tongue, and yours can be a household name in every 50 states. Your mother may be exposed for failing to raise you correctly, and you may lose your reputation, your job, and I suppose even your family.

But see, here’s the thing. Illegal alien and undocumented immigrant mean exactly the same thing. The difference, as you’ll remember from English class, is that “illegal alien” has a negative connotation, or the “idea or feeling that a word evokes,” quite beyond the literal meaning.

The problem is that the connotations of some categories of words tend to pejorate. Pejoration is a linguistics term describing the way some words take on negative or disparaging connotations over time. This isn’t really a random process; certain categories of words tend to pejorate more than others, which to me raises some interesting questions.

‘You can insist that sexism exists only in the perfervid imaginings of a bunch of old feminists, but our language tells a different story.’

For example, words having to do with women often pejorate. Hussy started life as the perfectly respectable “huswif,” or housewife—but please don’t call me a hussy or I will be very angry. Don’t call me a courtesan, either, although a courtesan once meant nothing more insulting than a lady of the court. You know, like a courtier—but words having to do with men do not have the dismaying habit of slumming around with the riffraff.

A few centuries ago, a wench was a female baby or a young unmarried woman. I don’t think I need to explain “mistress” and “madame,” but you might not realize that a spinster was once a woman who spins. And a tart, in the sense of a prostitute? Tart was probably just a contraction of the innocuous “sweetheart.”

Are you angry yet? Our attitudes are indelibly imprinted upon our language. You can insist that sexism exists only in the perfervid imaginings of a bunch of old feminists, but our language tells a different story.

Words having to do with smells also tend to pejorate, as do words having to do with the bathroom. So that brings me to what I really want to talk about, which is words having to do with ethnic groups and words referring to people with disabilities.

This is perilous territory, and I risk a misstep that will send me into Twitter purgatory. I did my homework, however, and I believe—unless the terminology has already changed—that black and African American are still acceptable. “Negro” not so much, apparently—the Army actually apologized in 2014 for saying the term was tolerable.

I guess Martin Luther King didn’t get the memo when he used the word “Negro” in his moving “I Have a Dream” speech: “But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free,” he wrote. “One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we’ve come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.”

Let’s not even talk about the founders of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NACCP). What were they thinking?

Most people are aware of the care needed in referring to different ethnicities, but they’re shaky on words referring to people with disabilities. A “disabled person” or “the disabled” are definite no-nos. You should probably stay away from “mentally ill” (“person with mental-health issues” is better).

‘Why keep changing words when the problem is really societal attitudes? I realize I’m on treacherous ground here, but can’t the word police ease up just a little on us old fogies who grew up using terms that are now totally unacceptable?’

I’ve kept up well enough to know that “retarded” is no longer acceptable, never mind the fact that The Arc, an organization for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, started out in 1953 as the National Association for Retarded Children. The association’s history of name changes allows us to date with some precision the period when “retarded” pejorated to the point of becoming completely verboten. That would have been the early 1990s, when the Association for Retarded Citizens of the United States euphemized into The Arc.

And don’t forget, “handicapped” is really bad.

I could go on with examples all night, but I bet you get my point. In fact, my point is, “What’s the point?” Why keep changing words when the problem is really societal attitudes? I realize I’m on treacherous ground here, but can’t the word police ease up just a little on us old fogies who grew up using terms that are now totally unacceptable? It’s just hard to keep up, you know.

Does changing a word to something less “offensive” really solve anything? Doesn’t it make more sense to work on the entrenched attitudes themselves? If I ever end up in a wheelchair, please—just call me a cripple. I promise I won’t get angry (but stay away from hussy or courtesan).

Even worse, aren’t the sensitive, empathetic, socially conscious ones among us—the people who point out that “Oriental” is really not nice—the ones who are perpetuating this pejoration?

I realize I’m an outlier, but my philosophy has always been that I won’t take offense unless offense is meant. In this era of political correctness and “microaggression,” can’t we all all just lighten up a little bit?

 

A mountain of names—mine included

I’m cleaning house and ran across some old essays. I’ll post them on here just for fun (and for my kids).


By Jacque White Kochak

This essay was first published in The Auburn Villager

It’s happened again. I’ve been referred to as “Mr. Kochak.”

I don’t have anything against men. Really I don’t—but I am definitely of the female persuasion. Let me explain. But where to begin? At the beginning, I guess.

My given name at birth was Jacqueline Lee White. I was named after my father, Jackie Lee White. He was named after his father, Jack White.

You may note that we’re not very creative with names in my family. In fact, I’ve definitely traced my ancestry back to about 1760. Patrick White begot James White, who begot Patrick White, who begot James White, who begot Patrick White. The photo above is one of those Patrick Whites (my great grandfather) and his wife, Minnie Boyd White.

Then, for some reason, Jack makes an appearance, followed by Jackie and Jacqueline. I couldn’t possibly be known as “Jackie Lee,” now could I? I would have been confused with my father. Therefore, somebody got creative and spelled my name “Jacque.” That’s where the trouble started. Add an “s” to Jacque and you’ve got Jacques, a perfectly respectable name for a French male—which I am not.

I’ve been known as Jacque—Jack-ee—all my life. I don’t like to be called Jacqueline, because it sounds pompous.

When I started writing, however, I soon found that if I used Jacque as my byline, I got letters addressed to “Mr. Kochak.” I quickly adopted the byline “Jacqueline Kochak,” so people would know a woman penned the brilliant tracts I regularly produced. A little feminist feeling there, I guess.

When I wrote for a national publication it didn’t matter much, because I didn’t run into my readers on the street. When I started writing locally, however, I cringed every time someone addressed me with that cumbersome, haughty first name. “Just Jack-ee,” I usually replied.

When I started writing for The Villager, I cast caution to the wind. I know everyone anyway, don’t I? Guess not.

I find names fascinating. When I started studying genealogy, I found names are almost like DNA markers, passed down from generation to generation. In the past, they have taken on almost mystical importance, honoring those who have passed.

In Scots, Irish and English tradition, the eldest son was usually named for the father’s father, and the next eldest son for the mother’s father. The third son was named for the father, and on down the line until all the father’s brothers were included. Female names followed the same pattern.

In recent times, of course, we’ve abandoned that pattern in favor of the nom du jour. My parents were no different. As the oldest daughter I really should have been named Melva, you know.

That brings me back to all those Patricks. There are still Patricks in the White family, my cousin and nephew included. When my cousin was born, my grandmother told my uncle (Joe Pat, by the way), “You have to name him Patrick, because there has always been a Patrick in the White family.”

Turns out she was right. The first Patrick White appears in Virginia records in 1653, and his name is commemorated through generation after generation, some far removed from me. I discovered a long-lost cousin in Texas named Patrick White, and his line branched off in the 1850s.

The point? I don’t have one, really. Just call me “Jack-ee,” please!