FUCKWIT

by Ross Sharp

A fuckwit blew away the lives of fifty people the other night in a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida.

The fuckwit took a gun, a firearm, as easy to operate as a cigarette lighter, as cheap as a toaster, and whose only purpose is to make holes in human beings, and proceeded to put holes in dozens of human beings, at a whim, because it could, because anybody could, and they often do, because they are fuckwits.

This particular fuckwit, a nothing, a nobody, forgotten and forsaken, ignored, wanted to be somebody, but didn’t have the talent, didn’t have the intelligence, and if no one would let it be a somebody, then it wouldn’t let them be a somebody either.

So it blew them away.

This fuckwit wanted to be a big deal, a boss, a master, a power to be reckoned with, an authority to be obeyed. It wanted to be the “King of the Castle”, the “Master of Its Domain”, but it couldn’t even manage to master its own fucking laundry.

Fuckwit.

In the aftermath of this fuckwit’s fuckwittery, various individuals, in media, and from the world of politics and religion are attempting to analyse the mind and motives behind this fuckwit’s actions, despite the fuckwit being dead, having had holes punched through it by police on the night.

The fuckwit was mentally ill, they say, a psychosis. The fuckwit was homophobic. The fuckwit was a Muslim.

The fuckwit was gay.

Our Prime Minister took a moment of his own time to remind us how events such as these are cause for us all to remain vigilant against threats to our way of life, a “strong, ever-present threat”, in this, an election year. Classy guy. A Family First fundamentalist tweeted along the lines of “aw gee shucks, but gay marriage something something children”. In the United States, a rat-faced orange hair-plug spoke of conspiracies, in this, an election year. A preacher preached “that there’s 50 less pedophiles in this world, because, you know, these homosexuals are a bunch of disgusting perverts and pedophiles.” And so it went, and so it shall go, tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow.

This commentary, this fevered conjecture and speculation as to the state of mind of a fuckwit, a dead fuckwit, all seems a little too self-serving to my own mind, the agendas of those choosing to publicly participate repulsively transparent, too righteously self-important, theories about theories about the why’s, how’s and what’s which rattled the mind of a fuckwit, a now (thankfully) dead fuckwit, and set it upon its course of mass murder.

What I do know, is that forty-nine men and women, gay men and women, men and women of a specific community, the LGBTI community were murdered, and over fifty others from that same community are wounded, and many of those may never recover, physically and/or psychologically.

Because of a fuckwit.

A fuckwit.

We need to call out the fuckwits in our midst, regardless of race, creed, colour or religion, we need to call them out when they say or do fucked-up things about or to people who would simply like the freedom to live their lives, love whom they choose to love, and go about their business in peace.

Which is pretty much most of us.

If the recollections of those who knew it are anything to go by, fuckwit had been a fuckwit for most of its fucked up life, schooled in the dark arts of general fuckwittery, misogyny and homophobia from an early and impressionable age by its male parent, another fuckwit.

Fuckwit took steroids, we know that, steroids being guaranteed to bulk up the body whilst shrinking the brain, not that there seemed much to shrink to begin with. Fuckwit beat and abused its first wife, held her hostage, treated her as its slave until she left four months after the marriage begun. Fuckwit had a bunch of go-nowhere jobs and went nowhere in them, those who worked with it kept clear of it, thought it was a fuckwit best avoided. Fuckwit hung out at the gay nightclub it shot up for a couple years, it used gay dating apps, yet, it would seem, nobody wanted to fuck the fuckwit let alone talk to it, no doubt because fuckwit wore its fuckwittery on its forehead and on its sleeve, and they probably thought to themselves, “There’s something a bit suspect about this fuckwit, something not quite right, something strange going on tonight, this fuckwit’s a bit off, this fuckwit’s wired.”

I don’t want to write about this fuckwit anymore, fuck it, 782 words are enough.

781 more than it deserves.

The one it does deserve?

Fuckwit.