Have "we" become too sensitive?
This, friends, is today's "sensitive" woman
She calls "us" "we" and "you" "we," so "we" need to learn how to talk to her. | Source
A FEW MORE "NEW AGE," "SENSITIVE" PEOPLE
"NEW AGE" GIRL TALKS WITH CURIOUS PASSERBY ABOUT HOW "SHE" AND THE\ REST OF MANKIND EVOLVED FROM MOON ROCKS.
THIS "IS" A TRUE SENSITIVE FATHER. I APPLAUD THIS MAN.
LOVELY "NEW AGE" GIRL," WHO AGREES WITH EVERYONE AND BECOMES ONE WITH THE MOON.
"NEW AGE" MAN LOVING HIS BONDING WITH TREES.
JAMES VAN DER BEEK OF "DAWSON'S CREEK," SHEDS TEARS TO PROVE HE IS SENSITIVE.
Personally, I think that we in America have lost sight of the word, and principle: moderation.
Not that I am pointing a finger at anyone, it’s just that I have grown weary, very weary, of how some segments of our society conduct themselves in speech, actions and behavior.
No one is perfect, so do not post any “hate” comments to this story. I just want to talk about one subject: “Have We Become “Too” Sensitive,” in our country today?
I am all for “sensitive,” “caring,” and “understanding,” my fellow members of mankind, but when that boundary of “going too far,” has been crossed, then “I” begin to get irritated. I don’t show it that much in public, for if “I” should give-in to this weakness, I would suffer scorn, raised-eyebrows and huffs from the elite and enlightened masses and be considered an “outcast.”
I wouldn’t know how that feels. Enlightened and elite.
Before I continue, let me comment about being an “outcast.” Being an “outcast” sometimes is really not that rough. Being totally-alone with your own ideas, thoughts and feelings, and not being bothered, irritated or “pigeon-holed” by people who are no more “excellent” than I am.
That’s another level I’ve never felt. Excellent.
Had a weary conversation with a “new age” woman sometime ago in a local Walmart. She was very attractive, but not in the seductive sense. She was dressed in a maxi-dress (remember those?) that dragged the floor behind her “earth shoes” (I kid you not) and she had “that” look about her. That look of “look at me. I am a free-spirit. I am not of this earth.”
All I did was ask where the Charmin bath tissue was located. That’s all. Not that I thought by her colorful-wardrobe that she was a “bath tissue expert.” I just wanted some valuable information. About bath tissue, for God’s sake. That’s all.
“Bath tissue?” she said. “I do not use such a toxic item,” she added while her eyes twinkled behind her huge, orange sunglasses. Then froze in a statuesque pose.
I couldn’t help it. Even the sexy Jessica Alba if she had offered to have dinner with me that night, wouldn’t have stopped me. I had to ask, “why?”
“bath tissue poisons my body, and Mother Earth,” she answered. I should have seen that one coming, but there I stood dead-center of the tracks while this speeding “new age locomotive” ran smack-dab over me.
“Mother Earth? I love Mother Earth myself. I recycle, walk when I can and not use my car and alway choose “paper,” not “plastic,” I remarked my chest puffing out with pride.
“We choose to free ourselves of such toxins and live on the clean vibrations from the earth like our ancestors did before the Myan Indians,” she said with a certain conviction. I had to stop and (not laugh) but lend her an air of respect.
“But, miss, when you do “go,” what do you use?” I asked. Again, even if the sexy Jessica Beal had offered to seduce me in the moonlight on some secluded beach in Hawaii, wouldn’t have stopped me.
“not “you,” but “we,” go,” she replied confusing me even more.
“No, I meant “you,” not “we,” I said looking ignorant.
“We do not use “I,” “you,” or “us,” but “we” in our society,” she explained while folding her hands into a Lotus position while the Walmart shopper passerbys glanced at her, or maybe “us,” I mean, “we,” and laughed to themselves. I knew they were laughing because I could see their bodies shake like bowls of jelly. No, that’s Santa in “The Night Before Christmas,” but I tell you, friends, their bodies did shake.
“Let me understand. “You are not you, but a “we,” right?”
“Yes, that is acknowledged,” she replied now closing her eyes and moving her lips chanting something to herself. It sounded like she was chanting, “Meow, meow, meow, meow,” but I dared not ask if I was right.
“You, I mean, “we” were right,” I asked like an excited second-grader who had answered a tough history question.
“Yes, “we” were “acknowledged,” she said with authority. Now moving her head to the right and left as in a yoga work-out video.
“Okay, I understand. But you neglected to answer my question of what you use when you “go to the bathroom?” I asked hoping to get free of this entire conversation.
People were now gathering around us just like “I,” err, “we,” were in an old-time medicine show selling whiskey disguised with tea and lemon and calling it, “Miracle Tonic.”
“Oh, “we” use sand for bath tissue. It’s Mother Earth’s cleansing agent. It’s free. Good for the ozone layer and “we” do not transgress against Mother Earth,” she said and this time, bent over and bowed to me. With her hands still folded.
“Thank you. I, I mean, “we” need to get going. I, I mean, “we” have errands to do for the wife,” I said almost ready to bolt like a prize Kentucky thoroughbred toward the bathroom tissue aisle.
“Wife?” She asked. “Yes,” I answered. “Was that incorrect, I mean, “unacknowledged,?” I said.
“Sir, a wife isn’t a wife in the society “we” live in. A wife is know as a “solar mate,” she said with a sincere smile on her face that had absolutely no make-up whatsoever.
“Solar mate . . .hmmm, I, err, sorry. “we” acknowledge that,” I, I mean, “we” said as “we” sped away toward the homewares department or any other aisle where I could hide-out until it was safe for me, sorry, “we,” to come out.
I, errr, “we” found myself breathing in small breaths while I wedged myself, sorry, I mean , “we” were wedged between two huge Persian rugs the store had hanging on a display. About ten minutes passed, but it seemed like a day or two.
Funny when “we” are scared and alone, how “we” whisper comfort and confidence to “we” so “we” can get out of that scary situation unscathed.
“Coast is clear . . .hmmm, no sign of Yoko Ono, okay. Now I, darn it, “we” have got to make a break for it.” I whispered to myself coaching myself “up” to get out of the Walmart store.
I had made about twenty clean steps, then I heard a voice, “How did “we” enjoy our shopping experience today, sir?” said a tall, stately, rather handsome man with a huge smile plastered on his face.
“Uh, oh,” I, errr, “we” thought. “the jig’s up. I’m busted.”
“Oh, well, sir, “we” had a great time. “we found your store to be very educational, friendly and professional,” “we” answered.
Then I saw her, the lady in the orange, red, and green maxi-dress walking toward the store manager and, uhh, me.
“Oh, there you are,” the store manager said to the Yoko Ono-type of woman who had now standing beside the manager.
“Sir, have you met my sister, “Moon Queen of Celestial Song?”
“Yes, “we” have,” I said.
“And she works here in the store too,” the store manager stated.
When my near-stroke symptoms wore off, I replied, “What do you, I’m sorry, I mean, “we” do here in the store, Moon Queen?”
“Oh, “we” manage the bath tissue section. Do “we” need to show you the way?” she asked with eyes wide with excitement.
“Uh, no. You know what? Just show me where you keep the sand.”
“Too sensitive?” “Not sensitive enough?”
“We” are confused, but one thing’s for sure . . .
“We’re” through with this story.
In the old days, men like this were "sissies"
But in 2012 "this" man is considered "sensitive." | Source