Moronic Diatribe #1

Morons cover the surface of the Earth like a layer of bacterial scum in a petri dish. Moronic behaviour can best be described as Intellectual Inertia. The acerbic youth of the Dickhead or the foppish tom-foolery of the Buffoon are examples of ‘Active Idiocy’, offering resistance to generally defined goals through persistent, deliberate misbehaviour. The Moron is probably unique in the noble pantheon of English insults, in that he or she usually offers ‘Passive Idiocy’. Like the mile-wide turning circle of an oil tanker, the moronic mind attempts real-time engagement but must be carefully coaxed to avoid irreversible damage to the infrastructure. The salient characteristics of the Moron are:

- Obsession with meaningless minutia and trivia
- Massively inflated sense of personal capability
- Self importance
- The statement of the obvious
- Persistent failure of linguistic accuracy
- One-upmanship
- Adherence to idiotic social, historical and scientific theory
- Social insensitivity
- Complete, unquestioning faith in ‘The System’

These tendencies usually work in concert to provide an effective barrier to creative progress. There are two sub-categories of Moron, which I call the ‘Massive Moron’ and the ‘Classical Moron’, their chief difference being their sense of humour. A ‘Massive Moron’ has an overbearing and usually offensive sense of humour, built upon a series of oft-repeated un-funny witticisms. The Massive Moron deviates slightly from the true Moronic spirit, in that his sense of humour tends towards Active Idiocy, whereas the Classical Moron, being devoid of a sense of humour, is utterly passive, and could reasonably be described as a ‘True Moron’. A further sub-category is the Aspiring Moron, i.e. a person showing embryonic moronic behaviour who has not yet attained sufficient professional status to fully indulge in moronism, and as such has not yet developed into either of the two categories outlined above (although in most cases, the characteristics can be discerned).

A curious aspect of modern Moronism is that it does not appear to be self defeating. Quite the reverse. Perhaps the most important aspect of the Moronic mind, the feature that defines their place in society, is their complete and unquestioning faith in ‘The System’. Here perhaps, I should define what it is I mean by ‘The System’. In twenty first century Britain, ‘The System’ is a complex fiscal entity, with subtly defined parameters of success, based on the Anglo-Saxon Capitalist model. Morons, almost without exception, subscribe whole heartedly to the notions of home ownership and fiscal control defined as desirable. It should be stated at this point that home ownership does not make a Moron, but a Moron almost invariably is a home owner. Typically, the Moron rejoices in his mastery of the property market, loudly and repeatedly proclaiming the wisdom and dividends of his investment (“I bought my house in 1983 for £15,000, and it’s now worth £180,000” etc). Beneath this overt expression of conformity are wide ranging life choices, built upon purchasing power, that render the British Moron probably the most important dynamo of the functioning economy. The latest “must-have” gadgets, from wide-screen televisions to vacuum cleaners, all satisfy the intense banality of the Moronic personality.

Professionally, faith in ‘The System’ (apologies for such a simplistic term, but it is the most apt I can conjure) elevates the Moron to positions of responsibility despite serious deficiencies of imagination and talent. Modern British Morons, as described above, occupy a certain strata of lower management, and are generally content with this position, viewing their status as a success. The Moron is utterly incapable of introspection of any depth, seeing their role in an organisation as important and dignified; thoroughly respecting the systemic framework built around them to the detriment of imaginative solutions. Thus a moron in such a position is paralysing pedantic. Such belief in the importance and dignity of their work plays an important role in their ability to operate at this level; an institution will empower a Moron for their first-rate work ethic and reliability. From a practical point of view, Moronic pedantry restrains the ability of those at a lower level to bend and twist system features for the purposes of expediency.

Notwithstanding their generally repellent nature, the Moron must be considered a bastion of functioning modern society. Morons push the paper that delivers goods and services around the globe. The scale of international commerce and trade has spawned vast conglomerates, as the investment needed to be profitable from the sale of modern mass produced consumables demands large investments only feasible from such enormous business interests. In this framework, the Moron thrives; his natural deference to authority, his work ethic and reliability have brought him great power and pathos. Which all rather exacerbates how much Morons piss me off, as I’m the one who has put up with this endless bollocking shit that shrouds my working life.

Boredom, Thy Name Is Work

Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast, Toast... What do you put in a toaster?

That’s how bored I am. Faint snatches of childhood riddles fill out this grey night shift like a downy pillow. A steel encased slab of glass is my only contact with any kind of movement. Beyond is the bile yellow fug of a vast warehouse; eighteen thousand pallets of breakfast cereal racked militantly for anonymous national consumption. Something approaching fifteen million boxes of cereal are ferreted away in this angular monstrosity, dutifully attended to by an incumbent army of dour faced plebeians incessantly perplexed by the abstract digital hand that guides them. The time according to Rodney is 01:28, four and a half interminable hours till my emancipation and the gracious retreat of my newly acquired king sized bed. My ponderous Shift Manager, despite the quietness of the hour and the lack of work, chirps relentlessly on my radio, spending my precious energy on vacuous diversions, then becomes dumbfounded, like a charmed snake, when I approach him with an issue of genuine import. Temporary escape is achieved only by the long walk to the gate to wish away a cigarette in the taunting rain. I return, damp, to the clatter of an antique printer.

There is a scene in the movie The Matrix where the sumptuously evil Agent Smith confides in the shackled Morpheus: “I…hate…this…place… this zoo; this reality, whatever you want to call it. It’s the smell, if there is such a thing. I feel saturated by it. I can taste your stink, and every time I do I feel I’ve somehow been infected by it. It’s repulsive.” That’s about the size of it, Smithy.

Working sucks.