Culturalism · Relations and Dating

Strange Idols

The empowered blogosphere has been alight recently over the negative reaction to a miscarriage picture posted by John Legend’s wife. While it all appears to be a case of much ado about cucking, the fury got me thinking about the bizarre and morally degenerate folks who are uplifted, largely due to celebrity status or the relative quality of their body. In that latter grouping falls the insufferable Milana Vayntrub,  a girl next door type who has somehow managed to capture the hearts of the commercial-consuming world, though for what reasons I cannot rightly know. She also had the following to say after Trump’s COVID diagnosis:

To be fair, the president isn’t the nicest person in the world, but focus on the messenger for a moment. Vayntrub is a public figure with substantial clout both on-screen and online. Is such a sentiment responsible from the standpoint of a person pretending to endorse positivity and respect, particularly given her own gripes with negativity on the internet? Leftists do get the social pass on hatred, but even on an individual level she has the capacity to rise above this mayhem.

Milana’s mischief is not isolated to Trump, however. In response to the #YouKnowMe hashtag being used to popularize abortion, she tweeted this:

Joke or not, it showcases great imperfections of the soul. Here is a person whose fame is largely based on their unchosen physical appearance, making light of the unborn child’s death. Why, exactly? Not because it gets in the way of humanitarian outreach or self-sacrifice, but rather sex.  

Therein is the vile truth about our decrepit nature. Lust seizes and commandeers the spirit, manhandling her purpose towards the subjugation of all value in exchange for that brief utterance, the ejection of fleeting happiness which soon turns to grim depression. We follow such creatures because they reflect our basest selves, the living desire to be mortal gods with a large enough digital soapbox and bank account to where any sense of guilt is swept cleanly away, leaving material grimace in the wake.

So freely virtue dies, bleating ecstatic moans to the lingered end.

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