Here’s the thing, damn you, I refuse to be mollified and I can smell “being humored” like a fart in a car. I signed up for this, put my eggs in this wagon, because it was the one place left that still felt like a meritocracy – you know, the cream would rise, and the best work would lead to success. Instead, my sneaking suspicion has turned to an outright accusation: this shit is RIGGED, isn’t it?
That’s fine if it is. I’m not some shy begonia just off the yam truck; I’m more than happy to call a rake “a rake” and a hoe “a hoe” and play the game as directed. But if you are going through the motions, being the Grand Guignol in a kabuki theater to make it look like you’re covering the bases, then just fucking let me know.
You’ve no need to mollycoddle me – I’ve had the view from the cheap seats for too many years to lose my innocence. I have a pioneer’s expectations and descend from ancestors who kept extra coffins. But you are no longer permitted to waste my time. If I want humiliation, I’ll go back home and get it delivered straight, no chaser, in the warm bosom of friends and family.