THE “COURT” PASSES JUDGEMENT ON WESTERN CIV AND HIS FRIENDS

The first to arrive at court was a world-weary man wearing a baseball cap, chomping on a cigar, and looking like he’s had enough.   His back is scarred and bloodied from too many whippings.  His name Is Society.

Careful of those smoking fingers.

“Judge,” he says, looking up through hooded eyes.   “I’m $#&%@& sick of it.  Any &%@*&#% thing that happens, I’m da cause.”  He took a swig of beer and continued. “Lower morals, blame me.” He smacked his chest.  “Corruption, drugs, crime, greed, poverty, inequality, laziness and war.  It’s alwaaays Society.  I’m the modern, devil, Yer Honah, sir.  Well, I’m done.  Let people blame themselves for a change.  I’m tired of being the whipping boy.”

The Judge motions with his head to a man next to Society wearing a white coat.  A stethoscope dangles rakishly around his neck.

“Who’s that? asks the Judge.

“He’s my doctor.”

“Are you sick?”

Society rolls his eyes. “Am I sick? Are you kiddin’ me?  For fifty friggin’ years, they’ve been sayin’, that I’m sick!  Yer honah, sir, a Gallup poll in 1968 ‘splained why I’m so out of sorts.”

1. The amount of rioting, killing, crime

2. Lack of sufficient law enforcement

3. Laxity of the courts

4. People are too selfish

5. Not enough individual initiative

6. Poor upbringing

7. A breakdown in morals

8. A turning away from religion

“Ya know somthin’, yer honah, dat’s da  same list you alls  see today.”

The Judge takes a deep breath, but before he could speak, a quiet fellow dressed in black arrives at court.  His head is bent, hands clasped in prayer.  The courtroom turns silent. Christianity had lost a lot of weight. He looks haggard and defeated.  “I’m not the man I used to be,” says Chris, looking up at the judge.  “Every day I lose more and more.  There was a time when I was the most vital idea in the world, the basis of morality, everyone’s savior, the foundation of the West.  But now,” he shrugs, “not anymore.   People are leaving me in droves.”  He paused.  “Society over there tries to take  care of everything from the cradle to the grave, consequently, people don’t need me for anything - that is until they run into trouble.  Then it’s “Oh, please God this, please God that, I just need a few bucks ‘till payday, help me save my marriage…” 

Chris looks up at the Judge, and grinds his teeth. “I’m sooooo tired of hearing about the Spanish Inquisition.”  His face scrunches-p into a sarcastic visage; his voice edges into a mocking tone. “You Christians are just as bad as everyone else.!!  Your honor, how can I make these lazy-thinking noodnicks understand that bad people do bad things in the name of anything, including Christi….”

The Judge holds up his lordly hand.  “Okay, okay, Father, just take it easy.  Look behind you.  That guy is really a mess.” 

The System strides in – button down jacket, attaché case, nondescript – and totally disheveled.  “You’ve got it all wrong!  I’m the one everyone picks on.  When criminals go free…blaaame the system.  Welfare cheats… blaaame the System.  Too many Asians at Harvard, blame you know who. Economic downturn…blame the system.  Racism…I’m your guy.   (Actually, they blame my cousin – Systemic.)

“Now wait just a minute. Hold the phone!”  Everyone turns to see a little guy looking like the mega-rich Monopoly man, complete with top hat and gray mustache.  Hundred-dollar bills hang from his pockets.  He’s running away from all the flak.

“Okay, Cap,” the judge says, “go ahead and give your spiel.”

“You people have no idea what true suffering is like,” Capitalism begins. “They criticize me because I’m successful. They don’t understand that because I leave them alone, I’m responsible for helping this country become powerful and wealthy.  The money - controlling statists consider me evil because I give everyday people the freedom to make their own choices, instead of making choices for them.” Everything is upside down.

Cap holds up his right hand, but it isn’t there.  His hand is invisible. “This is what my critics have blinded themselves to” he said, tweaking his gray ‘stache.  “The hand you cannot see channels man’s inherent self-interest into opportunity, innovation, competition and prosperity for everyone.  Just let the system alone and..”

“Are you picking on me again,” the System shouts.  “Well, I’m sick and tired of---”

“Enough!!” Quiet!” orders the Judge.” You think you’re in bad shape, Look behind you.”

The assemblage gasps.  Never hve they seen anyone so thoroughly beaten down.  He wears a jacket and a loosened tie.  In another circumstance he might have looked decent.  Instead, he is dazed.  Confused.  Intimidated.  Small.  His horn-rimmed glasses are awry; his eyes crossed in bewilderment.  It’s American Man. (At least what’s left of him).

“Jeez,” says Society.

 “Here,” says The System, “drink this testosterone. You need a boost.”

 “How the %$@&%##!!X did this happen?”

 American Man looks around at the crowd and tells his tale of woe.  “Everywhere I go I’m scorned.  The bookshelves are loaded with anti-American Man books. ‘Smart Women, Foolish Choices.’  ‘Men Who Can’t Love,’ ‘How to Love a Difficult Man,’ ‘Men Who Hate Women and the Women Who Love Them,’ ‘Women Men Love, Women Men Leave,’ ‘The Peter Pan Syndrome,’ They talk about toxic masculinity as if it was a disease, when all we did was act like nature intended. Like men!  You can ask God why he made men this…”

“Caaaarful,” Chris warns. 

 “Enough!” cries the Judge in a voice that seems to echo down through the ages.  “Let him speak.”

 “It used to be that everyone knew their place,” said American Man. “Now men can claim to be woman and walk away with those competitive trophies. Now women want to be men, and men want to be women, and there are 376 non-binary genders.  Give me another dose of testosterone before I turn into a girly-man.”

“Make mine a double,” said Chris, and may God forgive me for my transgressions…”

In the back of the courtroom, a glass shatters on the floor.  Everyone thought it was Society Girls smashing the glass ceiling.  But it was only a martini glass.  The olive rolled quietly under a newcomer’s highly polished shoe.  He crushed it like a Wokebug.

“I’m far worse than the rest of you,” says the newcomer.  He wears a frayed tuxedo; a tinge of gray lines his mustache. The weary English Gentleman scans the assemblage. His name is Western Civilization.  

“You again,” booms the Judge.  “What is it this time?  More of the same?”

“Can you blame me, old boy?” says Civ.  “There was a time, not long ago, when I was highly respected.  A man of letters, of breeding, of culture and accomplishment.   After all I’ve done, after all that literature, philosophy, chemistry, genetics, physics, medicine, mathematics, the concept of limited government, architecture, engineering, music and art I created, you can still hear those nattering, neanderthal nabobs, (thanks Spiro Agnew) grunting, “Hey, hey, ho, ho, Western Civ has got to go.”  Did these sniggering morons ever hear of Hammurabi? Homer? Plato?  Aristophanes? Cicero?  Marcus Aurelius? St. Augustine? Michelangelo? DaVinci?  Shakespeare? Beethoven? Darwin. Dickens? Mark Twain?  Pasteurization? Edison? The Wright Brothers? Penicillin?  The Salk vaccine?  You know,” he continued, scrunching-up his nose derisively, “all those dead white men who never did anything to make our lives better?  Good Grief.  These people are as bad as the useful idiots at the universities; they’re willful, purposeful, antagonistic ignoramuses.”

“Stop. Stop. Stop,” booms the Judge.  The room quiets.  He looks around the court appraisingly.  Speaks slowly.

“Do You know who I am?”

Society, Civ, the System, American Man, Chris and Cap squirm nervously, exchange furtive glances, bite their lower lips and shrug.

“I’m known by another name, the Judge roared.  “You all exist to please me.  I am also known as…Posterity.  Ultimately, I judge.  What you all do is only important if I deem it so.”

Everyone oos and aahes, and shrinks a little further into their seats.

He turns to the assemblage.  “Get used to the blame. The whole lot of you will always be scapegoats.  Individuals are loath to blame themselves; society, western civilization, the system, men, religion, are all convenient targets because they are conglomerates and symbols. All of you are flawed. You all make mistakes.  

You want absolution?  Well, you won’t get it from me.  I can only judge what you’ve done in the past.  In the future I’ll judge your accomplishments today. So far you haven’t done so well.  These relentless attacks have put you in the midst of an identity crisis. You need to courageously fight back. There is still hope for you if you can get a grip on who you are and crush the Wokebugs like squishy olives.

“So, go!  I will not judge you harshly, but I will judge you honestly.   And, oh, uh, could I get a swig of that testosterone?  Mother Nature’s been on my case.  But that’s another story.”