I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
And I’m not talking about Pringles. I mean, sure, I love ’em. Who doesn’t? Some even say you can get a fever for the flavor. But it’s social snacking only. I can stop anytime I please. Get off my back about it, ok? Why’d you even bring it up? I don’t need a nap, you need a nap!
I forgot what I was talking about… Oh yeah! I’m talking about the chips that sit on our shoulders. The ones that make for such good drama, inspire athletes, drive the determined to greatness.
It can also make you a frightening asshole.
For years, we’ve abided the assholery, even glorified it. What Hollywood entertainment does not hinge on the little guy being wronged, only to mete out home-cooked vengeance? Charles Bronson, Jackie Chan, Jason Statham and innumerable more discovered that revenge is not a dish best served cold, but with prospects for a sequel.
And now we see politics trying to similarly franchise itself. This time, by posing as a one-size-fits-all costume for the aggrieved.
It’s hard to imagine how a chip addiction occurs across every demographic of the country. But the president made it clear in political rallies this summer for his very pale fanbase: Democrats are stealing your country; Immigrants are stealing your jobs; Black athletes are stealing your flag’s dignity.
You, the Pouter-in-Chief admonishes, should be more pissed about getting screwed. At a recent rally in North Dakota, he employed the tired-but-dependable stratagem of “Pssst, people are talking about you and they think you’re stupid.”
“We got more money,” Trump said, though I’m not sure the median income in North Dakota. “We got more brains, we got better houses and apartments, we got nicer boats, we’re smarter than they are and they say they’re the elite. You’re the elite, we’re the elite. Let’s call ourselves, from now on, the super elite.”
That super-elite status has energized the super-entitled. Frat boys are hitting Pier One for protest tiki torches. Jordan Peterson, a Canadian professor who specializes in neo-psychobabble, has become a bestselling author with a singular message: Whitey needs to man up. Fox News, in particular, has found ratings gold in redefining the GOP as the Grand Old Pariahs. Tucker Carlson actually hosted a segment on the societal assault on American men. Building glass ceilings, you see, is apparently hazardous duty. You could get a nasty shard.
It’s even seeped into sports. Free agency has made the hometown athlete as quaint as a phone booth, except more rare. We prefer pulling against a team than rooting for one. Tony Kornheiser, a talking head on ESPN, insisted in a segment that the New York Yankees needed to be atop the standings, for the good of the sport. “Baseball,” he said, “needs someone to hate.”
Maybe. Personally, I don’t see a shortage of people to resent. Starting with those Pringles critics. How I loathe them.
