Posted on 09/22/2016 7:57:34 AM PDT by rey
ST. CLOUD, Minn. – Shane Williams was standing in line at Orange Julius with his 6-year old daughter when the screaming started last week. Instinctively, Shane pulled his daughter close and began searching for the cause of the commotion.
Williams saw a woman running toward him; blood ran through her fingers where she clutched her abdomen. Behind her, a man dressed in a security guard uniform appeared to be wrestling with someone.
Williams, who believed he might be witnessing an instance of patriarchal oppression, grabbed his cellphone. What happened next has caused everyone from the Mayor of St. Cloud, to the Governor of Minnesota, to hail Williams as a hero.
As he drew closer, Williams was tipped off that the man might not actually be a security officer. The main clue was that the man wasn’t shooting or illegally detaining minorities. He was, instead, grabbing anyone he could, and stabbing them in the face and torso with a knife.
“Initially I felt a great deal of relief,” Williams explained. “A lot of times when I film real police officers for CopBlock, I have to step under crime tape, lean into their vehicles, or stand between them and the person they’re speaking with. Then they tell me to leave, and when I don’t I get arrested.”
So, without the fear of being persecuted for expressing his rights, Williams checked his privilege and approached the man.
“Immediately, I noticed that he was a person of color,” Williams said. “So, I asked him what his preferred pronoun was, told him that I was a proud ally, and asked how we might battle the realities of systemic racism together.”
Recognizing that Williams was, in fact, a proponent of restorative justice who only wanted a path toward freedom for all underrepresented and oppressed peoples, the man dropped his knife. Then the two walked to a nearby Starbucks. There, they established a safe space for them to sit and talk about how important it is to foster a queer-affirming, globalized network of like-minded social justice advocates who shared their world views.
“Mr. Williams’ saved a lot of lives today,” St. Cloud Mayor Dave Kleis said at a press conference after the attack. “If only this country had a much larger force of dedicated men and women who would run into the maw of chaos, rather than away. That’s the kind of courage borne of real love for your fellow man. This city will be forever in Mr. Williams’ debt.”
CINDERELLA
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, lived a noble gentleman and his (without denoting any real possession) dear daughter. She was very beautiful – her breasts were centrally located and she was cosmetically gifted.
He loved her very much, and he was worried that she was lonely, as her mother was metabolically challenged, and dwelled 6 feet underground. So the gentleman conjoined in a purely egalitarian partnership with a lady who had (without denoting any real possession) two daughters of her own, figuring that they’d be kind and sweet to his own lovely offspring.
Instead, they made her do all the domestic labour, and made her wear the clothes a financially disadvantaged person (or perdaughter) would. Both girls were aesthetically different and had a more challenging odour than would be normal, as well as having their own unique, rather liberal, moral codes, allowing them to bully and taunt the poor girl and make her do all the chores. The poor child would spend her days in the cellar, peeling potatoes, sat in a hunch in the corner by the chimney, and for this reason the sisters nicknamed her ‘Cinderella’.
One day, it was announced that one of the most financially advantaged people in the town, the King’s son, was going to throw a big ball. The sisters were asked to go, and they were so excited they ran around for days, laughing hysterically. They bought themselves fancy dresses that were so stuffed with jewels they stood up by themselves, and spent days and days talking about all the people of important social status that they planned to meet.
The great day arrived, and Cinderella found herself in the cellar by herself. “I wish I could go to the ball,” she said to herself. “I bet I could pull that prince – I’m far prettier than those two unconventional-looking, loved-by-spots, 300-pound dinosaurs. I’m far more preferable to men.” The two sisters departed, and Cinderella stayed at home and moaned to the silence.
It was not long until there was a big puff of blue smoke and a rather festively-formed, full-figured, gravitationally-powerful woman appeared. It was her fairy godmother. Cinderella recognised her at once.
“I really want…”Cinderella started.
“To go to the ball,” finished the godmother. Cinderella nodded. “Despite how much I support your freedom to be emotional, since I’m considering your own success here I would ask you politely to cease crying, lest it hinder you. Now go to the garden and get me a pumpkin.”
Cinderella could not imagine how a pumpkin could help her to get to the ball – unfortunately she was rather intellectually impaired and did not yet appreciate that the fat woman who had appeared out of thin air was magic.
Nonetheless, she took herself to the garden and took the biggest pumpkin she could carry back to the fairy godmother, who tapped it with her wand, turning it into a golden coach lined with white satin.
The godmother tapped Cinderella on the head and turned her shabby clothes into a stunning white silk dress.
Cinderella was concerned for the fate of the silkworms, but considered how the dress was made – using magic – and decided to forget about it. She looked at herself in the full length mirror, and remarked on her slippers, which were made of glass.
“Now go and get me 6 mice from the luxury mouse-trap with fitted mouse-furniture and a mouse television with specific mouse programming in the kitchen, and a big juicy rat.”
With a touch of the wand, each mouse turned into a horse, and the rat turned into a coach driver. Cinderella grew more concerned.
“Fairy godmother,” Cinderella said, “I am concerned for the wellbeing of these horses and this coach driver. One day they were vermin – not that vermin are lesser life forms, of course, and the next thing you know they’re horses and people, and I don’t plan to pay or feed any of them. Considering they’re working for nothing, exactly where should my morals lie in using them?”
“Shut up and get in the carriage, you selfish brat,” the godmother replied. “Oh, and, if you stay in the palace for one second after midnight, all my magic will vanish and you’ll be cosmetically challenged and in your monetarily inexpensive clothes.”
A few moments later, the coach was rolling down towards the ball with the excited Cinderella inside. She arrived and strode up to the prince, slamming her lips into his and they embraced. For the rest of the night, Cinderella and the prince were constantly in each other’s arms, and the two sisters, who did not recognise their own stepsister, were rather flattered when she spoke some words to them.
The hours flew by so happily that Cinderella did not even notice the time until it the clock began to strike midnight. With a cry of alarm she fled from the room. One of the glass slippers flew from her foot and landed on a crate of beer as she struggled to leave the ball before one second past midnight. The prince hurried after her, but, when he reached the entrance hall, she couldn’t find the beautiful girl – just a cinder-maid in a ragged grey dress.
Cinderella hurried home through the dark streets, overwhelmed with shame.
The next day, there was a great procession of trumpets and drums as a regal possession went through the town, going from place to place, at the head of which sat the king’s son. He held a glass slipper on a red pillow, as a herald announced that any lady in the land who could fit the slipper on her foot and could produce the pair would be to marry the prince, if both parties agreed and if the housework was shared equally. Both sisters tried, but their feet were too spacious to squeeze in. Cinderella begged to try, and, to the scorn of her sisters, the prince agreed.
The slipper slipped easily on, and Cinderella pulled the second glass slipper from her pocket. The prince was overjoyed, and wrapped his arms warmly around the pretty cinder maid.
Cinderella spoke up. “Despite the romantic ending of this story, emotionally I feel a little flat. You have fallen in love with me because the fairy godmother made me look pretty, and I’m not convinced that that is a satisfactory basis for a marriage – you don’t even know me. We have only met on one occasion, and, like in this story, I haven’t even established my true character or personality to you – you have no real idea of how well we’d get along.
I know you think you have noble and chivalrous intentions but in the context of this story they just reinforce negative notions about male dominance – you’re a prince, I’m a cinder maid, and I have no real interest in you to be honest – at least, no interest further than a purely financial one. It might be a happy ending because I’ll be royalty, but I want so much more!”
“I know,” the prince replied. “I’m completely loaded. I’ve got big palaces and we wouldn’t even have to see each other really, except when we’re having sex or ‘Deal or No Deal’ is on. I don’t need a woman with personality – just human contact.”
“So there’d be no love in our marriage? You’re really only interested in me because I’m an attractive female? Just a sex object? You Neanderthal!”
“Alas, yes, but trust me, you’ll enjoy it. It’s a massive social step up and you’ll have loads of money. You bloody feminists – Jesus – you’re just as human as I am when it comes down to it. Your life will be fantastic if we get married, and I don’t even care if you go off hunting for other men – so long as we still have sex and watch ‘Deal or No Deal’. I’m really easy to live with. If you marry me right now, you will definitely live happily ever after.
It’s your choice though, of course.”
Cinderella told the prince she didn’t want to be objectified by a man, and refused point-blank. She carried on being treated like a source of free labour by her morally challenged step-sisters and died in a home for the mentally impaired.
I'm not a mod, but I believe that "satire" should be noted in the article's title, perhaps in parentheses after the actual title. As you noted bk, that would help people in sorting out what they want to read and what they don't.
Satire is in the author line and in the topic line in capital letters. Did Swift write SATIRE across his work? Did Voltaire? This is not addressed at you personally, but I find it interesting that unless something is blatantly labeled people cannot discern what it is. It is telling that people accepted the story Jim removed from this site of Biden speaking inappropriately to a 13 year old girl. Certainly the Orwellian news speak has clouded our judgement, but a little practice will set us right and pull us free of the “Don’t be judgmental,” mantra of the left.
IT’S SATIRE
The whole gentle “satire”-in-the-title-please rule came about from the articles occasionally posted by Freeper John Semmens. His satirical work was so good that many readers took them as true stories.
So JR asked that the word “Satire” be included in the article’s title. As a side note, your post had me going until I was about half-way through it!
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/3209196/posts
Shane Williams was standing in line at Orange Julius...
...
That was the first clue that the article is satire.
No kidding. there is never a line there.
I went to the Orange Julius locator site. It is funny how many are in the Minneapolis area.
Thanks for the link to support yourself. I will behave better in the future. How does one contact Jim to add satire to the title?
I’m not quite sure how to contact Jim. Perhaps send a thread reply addressed to Moderator or Administrator.
As for “behaving better in the future”, if this is the worst sin you’ve committed on Free Republic, I’m sure you have a Freeper rating of A+. Posting mistakes I’ve made here would probably fill a small book!
Yeah that is what I assume he meant by that.
Duffleblog is a military-oriented version of the Onion.
... IT’S SATIRE ...
It’s my turn in the stupid box.
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