Social-veal cries “Creep!”, lives happily ever after, on the Expanded Plantation


“You know what you did, creep!,” she fished feministly, having been, herself, long since socially relegated to a stupidity the degree of which rendered her wholly incapable of articulating an intelligible accusation — much less defending it against even the most rudimentary criticism.

Then “Creep!”, as among the countless utterances relegated to empty newspeak, meant nothing except, “Help!”, among the shaved, shiny, stupid, helpless social-veal of culture. Not, “Help!”, as in, “Help: I’m in physical danger!”–but rather only, “Help: I sense that my social status as a sexual reward is at risk of demotion by the flirtation from a male who is beneath me–id est who, although far above me, yet is beneath other males who, in my social-dreams, will come to compete and save me from the nightmare of having to settle for someone who is not better than me to a large enough degree!”

Such veal, stripped of common sense and even of basic arithmetic, then banded together–id est were corralled together on the Expanded Plantation among a set of frenemies, as each set to work manically defaming any man and every man who dared to demean her with attention — for she knew, in her warped and rotting heart, that any REAL Man would tolerate, even congratulate, her social-allowance to mock and scorn the only male saviors, low-grade as they may be, who would ever come for her.

Days dripped away, years came and went–as gradually her chattery narcissism melted into whimpering cynicism, as her mind swirled with the corpses of offers she’d stepped over–from men now laughably above her pitiful social-rank as an over-ripened has-been who never was.

Then one day, to her absolute surprise, a high-value guy flirted with her, in the same social-scene where the contents of her sad, saggy, milk-meant ornaments had gone from sweet, to sour, then to powder–whose parading went from securing odes and cheers, to earning propositions and beers, then to eliciting gasps and jeers.

Though nearly in tears from her seeming social-sexual rebirth, she played hard-to-get–but only to the degree that, by her constant desperation, she was yet let: “I bet you say that to all the [doomed, damned, self-defeated, flailing, failing] girls!,” she challenged stupidly. “Nah gurl! You da bes! You fine as wine and a bucket of fried chicken! And I ain’t just saying that because I recently got released from prison, where I contracted AIDS from being a sexually indiscriminate social deviant!”

Leaving with her tall, dark, handsome prince, who’d finally come to rescue her: She looked back in triumph at her jealous frenemies, and their granddaughters who were texting frantically to avoid being flirt-raped by awkwardly shy losers.

…and she lived happily ever after.

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