It’s not a bad thing when bad people die


“A world without nuclear weapons would be less stable and more dangerous for all of us.”

– idiot above flashing the peace sign

Here is that gaseous dilettante, Piers Morgan, puffing about how Americans would never treat the death of a president with the piles of “outrageous hateful abuse” that too few Brits are helping to heave unto the grave of Margaret Thatcher (too few only because it’s only some, and not all, of them.) He uses this to compliment America; I take it as an accurate insult.

I don’t know how this country fares in comparison to others when it comes to accurately evaluating the legacy of the recently deceased. I suspect the retroactive hagiographical epitaphs we lavish upon our famous deceased aren’t a unique phenomenon; America is a stupid place, a very stupid place, but it is not the only stupid place.

Still, though, from perusing the Times of London and the Guardian it appears they’ve given some voice to the factual fuckups of Dame Thatcher’s legacy. We don’t do that at all here; our whitewashing is complete, rather than partial, once you’re dead, anyway. Oh, we’re more than happy to criticize influential figures while they’re actually around to respond and feed the news cycle, but we don’t take a breath after certain people have breathed their last before we sing of their angelic spirit whilst ignoring their very obvious demons. Those critics who aren’t cowed into silence are simply backhanded into irrelevance.

I once wrote about the prospective death of a certain Supremely odious figure, in which I mentioned the difference between advocating for someone’s murder and recognizing the potential positive impact of their final exit. Unlike Tony Fats, Margaret Thatcher’s death can result in no direct good; she was, at the time of her death, a walking (wheeling?) corpse, a delirious mummy. Nonetheless, the world is a better place, if only through addition by subtraction, without this apathetic, racist, homophobic, xenophobic witch.

She was a woman who crowed of her ascendance in a sexist establishment and then never appointed a single woman to her cabinet. She was the daughter of a butcher who rose to the highest office of the land and then waged an aggressive war against the working class. She was the embodiment of Randian selfishness, a cruel and stupid political savant who made her American partner in political coitus look good by comparison. And how fitting, then, that she shared his drooling fate.

Ding dong, the bitch is dead, and good fucking riddance. Somewhere, in a galaxy far, far below, the shrill cries of a British harpy answer the whispy “well”‘s of an American cowboy, and the fallen angel beholds his newest trophy.

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