Just when we thought we had evolved from drawings splattered on a cave wall to written language with phonetic code and linguistic rules, cheap DIY furniture with diagrams that would embarrass a grade schooler take us back to Bedrock.
Of course, the whole purpose for pictographs and universal symbols is to communicate beyond the ninety-nine different languages already provided in the DIY manuals. The one drawback being… the language to bridge the gap between the languages is a language to itself.
Like… what’s this?
Palm-god worshippers would be reduced to Neanderthal grunts, if it weren’t for their iGadget and apps of emojis.
The whole purpose of language is communication. Something we’re not doing. Oh, sure… everyone’s talking. And talking at once. But no one’s listening.
There’s even one entire social media site devoted to one sided communication.
Can an infinite number of chimps on an infinite number of keyboards pound out a social media post that doesn’t accuse everyone else of being a $&#%-ing Nazi?
Probably not.
At the tower of Babel, the Almighty added color to the lingo of the builders (none of which was English apparently). So, unable to order toilets from the Babylonian Depot, they abandoned the worksite and wandered off in different directions.
Too bad their blueprints weren’t from Ikea.
There was a reason why, no matter where Capt. Kirk parked the Enterprise, every air traffic controller spoke English. Not Vulcan. Because no one speaks Vulcan. Not even Vulcans speak Vulcan.
We were all at one time immigrants, or the sons thereof. Always mindful of our heritage, we threw off our former selves and became something unique – something not found anywhere else in the world… American.
Those who came before wanted to forever remind us that we were always to be: E Pluribus Unum… “Out of Many, One.” But too many of those who followed have Mad-Lib’d our motto into: E Pluribus Pluribus.
And the “Many” have no interest in joining the rest of us.
Diversity doesn’t make us stronger. Just different.
They want to take everything we have to offer, except our name. More than co-exist, they want to pre-exist as a sub-culture of America… something hyphenated America, with their own markets, their own schools, their own houses of worship. Not immigrants… occupiers.
Question: What is the death of culture
A society is defined by its culture. But by refusing America’s identity and traditions, new arrivals morph into cultural arsonists destroying what drew them to America in the first place – that which is uniquely America. And ultimately America.
And for fear of being labeled “-ists”, natives are exiles in their own land.
Political correctness: Always having to say you’re sorry.
Community is found in things we can all root for: The Stars and Stripes, balls and strikes, Hanna-Barbera. We don’t have to play on the same team, but it would help if we all played the same game.
The Flintstones of Bedrock may have been prehistoric, and their social media… a hammer and chisel, but at least they made an effort to express themselves in a way that everyone else could understand.
“Yabba dabba doo!”
Josie and the Pussycats
What more could any red blooded American boy want in a Saturday morning matinée?
The Way Outs
Kids need less classtime and more playtime, time with dad, and the Flintstones.
Not for rose. But what’s in a name?
What’s in a name? Would an overall’d farm lad straw hat and cap gun, sneak into a Saturday matinee double-play featuring Marion Morrison in Soggy Oatmeal followed by Not Jane Russell and the Rather Harmless Man?
Right Turn from the Left Lane 