Mad as hell

So there I was, arm hooked up to the machine, watching my plasma swirl away into a bag while the morning news dribbled across the screen like a bad fever dream. And what were they showing? A "riot" in Melbourne, allegedly. The sort of riot where the real thugs wear body armour, carry pepper spray and look like they just walked off the set of RoboCop. The people they were beating? A ragtag crew of teenagers and old hippies—probably fresh out of a drum circle, still smelling of patchouli. But sure, let's call it a riot.

Now, here's where it really gets good. I mentioned this spectacle to a few people later, thinking maybe they'd share my outrage or, at the very least, give a damn. But no. What did I get instead? A smirk, a chuckle, and—oh, the pièce de résistance—"You should really just let it go." Let it go? Yeah, let me uncork a nice, overpriced cup of coffee, sit back with my legs crossed, and soak in the latest reality TV trash. Why bother caring when I can numb myself with someone else's humiliation for entertainment?

And then comes the great revelation: "Hey, you know Donald Trump is bad, right?" Oh, do I? Try not to dislocate your shoulder from patting yourself on the back for that one. Wow, you've done it. You've cracked the code. Trump is a lying sack of shit? Stop the presses! Tell me, what are you going to hit me with next? Fire burns? Water's wet? The Earth is round? Here's a medal for being a little less asleep than usual.

But while we're busy pointing fingers at the obvious villain, can we also take a minute to remember that an awful lot of evil happens simply because it's lesser? We love our small outrages, don't we? Get mad just enough to feel good about ourselves but not so much that we actually do anything about it.

Because let me tell you something—if I ever find myself anything less than incandescently pissed when I see jackbooted thugs disguised as peacekeepers, thumping the life out of some kid, or casually spraying grandma in the face with tear gas for suggesting that maybe—just maybe—killing kids isn't cool, well, that's when you know it's all over for me. I'm done. Call it quits. Hand in my humanity card.

But we live in this fine era of hypocrisy, don't we? Where the political classes are ever-so-concerned about the sanctity of life—until it starts messing with their investment portfolios. Oh, you're homeless? Here's the solution: make it illegal. Mentally ill and freezing on the streets? Tough break, but we're busy funnelling taxpayer money into tax cuts for the rich. They need more summer homes, after all. It's truly a heartwarming display of Christian compassion. Turn away refugees at the border with one hand and quote the Bible with the other. Love thy neighbour—but only if they've got a Visa and a steady job. Amen.

And what a beautiful alliance, Christians and capitalists united in their one true faith: crushing dissent. You stand up for the oppressed? You're a troublemaker. You get rich off of exploitation and cruelty? You're a patriot. We're all too busy debating the obvious—Trump bad, police good, blah blah blah—while they're out there making sure the status quo stays nicely oiled and profitable. It's a neat little system they've got going.

And then there's our ongoing, delightful reconciliation with Aboriginal people. The headlines love to make it seem like progress. Oh look, we're graciously giving them back their ancestors' stolen bones—pat on the back, good job, everyone. Meanwhile, they're still denied land rights, dignity and a voice. Ancestors slaughtered, children stolen, culture stomped into the dirt—and we roll our eyes at their anger. What ungrateful bastards!

Don't even get me started on those politicians who claim to represent the workers while selling our futures for a fistful of dollars from their corporate overlords. Traitors, the lot of them. Meanwhile, the middle-class zombies around me float through their lives, plump and lazy, fattened on pay rises they didn't earn and leave days they didn't fight for. I've never seen you on a picket line, and I've certainly never seen you dip into your pocket for the union that's won you your cushy little world. But sure, tell me again to "let it go."

Move on, they say. Move on? I'd rather rip my own head off and feed it to myself.