They Are What They Claim To Despise

This post is written by a particular class of cretinous demonic wretch known by the surname McCrack, a relative – insofar as demons even consider such things, for they mock and disdain the family – of the one known as Trigger. This one didn’t think it worth the effort to even afford me with his first name, which I suppose fits with the general attitude of the post. Nevertheless, he refused to let me work on my writing until I granted him access to the blog. As for me, I can only warn you that all McCracks are notorious liars; do not trust him to tell you the correct hour of the day. 

Today’s post, my poppets, has not been written for your benefit; you can rest assured about that. In fact, it is written for nobody’s benefit but my own. I can only imagine that it will cause consternation, and this amuses me greatly. The situation is simply too deliciously petty not to share.

Most readers of the blog are aware of the campaigns known as the Sad and Rabid Puppies. For those not aware, I will summarize it thusly:

A rather minor pulp fiction author noticed a trend with a certain award ceremony: Works and authors roughly on the conservative side of the political divide had not been given attention for quite some time. Being a libertarian – not, by the way, conservative in any meaningful sense of the term, which makes his interest all the more confounding and ridiculous – he decided to start a silly campaign that he called, in a fit of tongue and cheek amusement, Sad Puppies. The idea is that he would try and get works from conservative leaning authors nominated for one of the awards. His theory was that the minions who tended to vote on such things would rather blow up the awards completely than let somebody with the wrong sort of thinking dare to infiltrate their collective orgy, messing up all of the fun they were having.

Let us note here the ludicrousness of the whole situation. The campaign was started by a single author, designed to make a fuss about a ceremony noticed only by snobbish leftist elites that normal people loathed and minority writers who liked to pretend that people didn’t read them because they were evil racist rednecks; the more obvious and unappealing reason that they were simply bad did not occur to them. The whole thing was essentially a joke, and treated by the pulp author and his readers as such.

And then the unthinkable happened: The orgy was infiltrated. The puppies broke into the bedroom and ruined all of the fun. As anyone interrupted in the bedroom knows, this is horrid and disgusting, the worst sort of intrusion. Why, who did he think he was? He must be punished, humiliated, destroyed! And so he was called the lowest and basest names, threatened with bodily harm and sometimes even death. And suddenly this minor kerfuffle turned into something bigger than itself.

Here is where the story gets really fun. The next person to join the mess was an even more minor and irrelevant fantasist and editor named Theodore Beale, who goes under the rather silly pseudonym of Vox Day. Unlike the pulp author, Day was a notorious anarchist; his goal was not awareness, but total destruction. And so the Rabid Puppies was born.

Well, we know how this story ends. The awards, already pointless and irrelevant, have degenerated into total farce. The in-crowd has put up barriers to voting so byzantine and ludicrous that an Einstein or Newton could hardly understand them, and still the Rabid Puppies manage to push in nominations for dinosaur pornography.

Nothing makes a McCrack happier than the fall of a once noble institution, and the circumstances of this particular crumbling are so deliciously stupid that merely summarizing it puts a smile on my face, or as close to one as I have worn in eons. The Hugo Awards are dead, and all that is left is the burial; the body may stink and fester for years before the imbeciles admit defeat, but you can rest assured that day will come. The Rabid Puppies accomplished their goal.

One might think the fun is over, but no! It is hardly beginning. For the Hugo cretins were not the only ones who refused to announce their patient dead. There was – supposedly is, though even I don’t know how that will go – another group of zombies running around: The Sad Puppies.

Tell me, my poppets, what is the point of the Puppies? Though many answers will be given, the most obvious one to suggest itself must be avoided at all costs: There is none. With the Hugo Awards dead, the Puppies have outlived their usefulness, but a small group of right wing idealists – fools, in other words – kept it alive by making up new meanings for it and pretending it’s something it’s not. As for the Hugo Awards, well, they’re incidental, now aren’t they? Never mind that they were the point of the whole shebang from the beginning.

Because the Puppies are corpses, they are inevitably much more fragile. The smallest shove and the innards are exposed, and the stench is much more recognizable. Thus, the bodies must be guarded at all costs, lest the outside world notice the flies. Of course, most know they’re dead already, and don’t care, but the Chief Zombies seem to be under the amusing impression that they are in charge of something sacred.

And that is the other great achievement of we McCracks (it is, rather, a minor achievement, because the situation is minor, but in any case it is one of our more entertaining achievements): The Sad Puppies, formerly a tongue in cheek campaign by a minor pulp author meant to mess with a silly award ceremony, has now turned into a group of shambling corpses kept alive by sacred guardians, whose only motivation appears to be the preposterously minor fame being the Guardian Zombies gives them. What started as fun is now Serious Business; and the great irony here is that this has all occurred when the whole thing has degenerated into something completely useless.

Now, most would be content to end it here, and indeed, the McCracks were just about ready to leave you monkeys behind to rut around in the mud, but then something else happened, something so delightfully absurd that I took the time out of my schedule just to watch the fun: Somebody who wasn’t a Guardian Zombie mentioned the Sad Puppies.

To understand why this is so important, so very frightening to the Guardian Zombies, you must remember that what they’re guarding is zombies; they are dead, and the slightest touch will crumble bodies into a puddle of ooze and flesh. And so everything has to be strictly monitored, to make sure that they knew exactly how to keep up the charade, and keep the corpses moving just so to prevent the skin from sliding off the bones. What made the whole thing even more delicious was that this time they specifically asked more people to participate! This was a ploy, of course, and a particularly transparent one; after all, they couldn’t very well admit that they were hiding something.

The Intruder into the party had to be stopped, and stopped now. And so he was – behind the scenes, in front of the scenes, and spread among the fans of the Guardian Zombies, some of whom were innocent dupes and some malicious agents. Furthermore, a watch was kept of anybody who seemed like they might be a threat to the charade. Friends of the Intruder were viciously slandered next, defenders of the Intruder, and soon enough, associates of the Intruder who hadn’t said a word either way on the subject were deemed a risk; perhaps they were not worth it to sic the minions on yet, but they were certainly under suspicion.

And for this enormously petty, pointless little charade friendships were sundered, alliances destroyed, a united front turned divisive – in other words, a better outcome than anything in any McCrack’s wildest dreams. In fact, this all lead to the greatest irony of all: The Sad Puppies themselves had turned into a closed off elitist group frightened of anybody who noticed that they were something they were not, entirely unwelcoming of input from anyone not in the Inner Circle and hostile to all who threatened, inadvertently or otherwise, to cut down the zombies to a pile of bones and flesh.

In other words: They had become the Hugo Awards.

And really, my poppets, can you imagine a better outcome than that? Hell itself shakes with laughter.

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