She’s very concerned about minorities. She wants you to know that. She posts about equity. She shares articles about systemic injustice. She has strong opinions about which words are harmful and which policies are needed to level the playing field. She is, by his own accounting, one of the good ones.
She is also, without realizing it, one of the most condescending people you will ever meet.
It starts with a screenshot. Someone said something online — maybe it was clumsy, maybe it was genuinely offensive, maybe it was a joke that didn’t land — and now the Compassionate Hatemonger has found it. Within hours, the machinery is running. The offending post is shared with breathless commentary. A list is assembled: who liked it, who commented approvingly, who failed to condemn it quickly enough. Names are tagged. Employers are contacted. The Compassionate Hatemonger is not angry, you understand. He is concerned. He is doing this because he cares about people. He is making the world safer.
In the Middle Ages, monks compiled bestiaries — illustrated catalogs of animals, real and imagined, each entry describing the creature’s nature and behavior and offering a moral lesson to the reader. The monks understood something useful: you can’t avoid a dangerous animal if you don’t know what it looks like.
The internet has its own fauna. Not trolls (we’ll get to those). These are the Opinionators — people who have carved out a specific, recognizable role in online discourse, and who show up with such clockwork predictability that they deserve formal classification. Over the next five articles, I’ll be cataloging nine species of Internet Opinionator. Each one wears a disguise. Each one does real damage. And if you recognize yourself in any of these descriptions, that’s not an accident.
Part 5 of 5
In Part 2, I mentioned a woman named Terri Schiavo. Time to come back to her.
On February 25, 1990, Terri Schiavo suffered cardiac arrest in her Florida apartment. She was twenty-six. The resulting oxygen deprivation left her severely brain-damaged, and she was eventually diagnosed with a persistent vegetative state. She was not dying. She was not on a ventilator. She was breathing on her own. She received nutrition through a feeding tube.
Part 4 of 5
In 1986, the National Organization for Women sued a man named Joseph Scheidler under RICO.
If that acronym sounds familiar, it should. The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act was passed in 1970 to prosecute the Mafia. It was designed for organized crime (for extortion, loan-sharking, murder-for-hire, drug trafficking). The law’s creators never imagined it would be pointed at a Catholic pro-life activist from Chicago who organized sidewalk protests outside abortion clinics.
Part 3 of 5
Norma McCorvey wanted an abortion. What she got was a pseudonym.
In 1970, McCorvey was pregnant with her third child in Texas, where abortion was illegal except to save the mother’s life. She was referred to two attorneys, Linda Coffee and Sarah Weddington, who needed a plaintiff for a federal challenge to Texas’s abortion law. They needed her name on the filing. They didn’t particularly need her.
Part 2 of 5
In 1798, an English clergyman named Thomas Malthus published An Essay on the Principle of Population and managed to be spectacularly wrong about nearly everything in it. His thesis was simple: human population grows faster than food production, so eventually everyone starves. His solution was equally simple: stop helping the poor. Charity, he argued, only encouraged the lower classes to breed, which made the problem worse. Nature would handle things if we’d just step aside and let the weak die off. He was wrong about the math (agricultural innovation has consistently outpaced population growth for over two centuries), wrong about the economics, and wrong about human ingenuity. But being wrong about everything didn’t stop his ideas from becoming enormously influential. It rarely does.
Part 1 of 5
To ensure devotion from the children they kidnapped and used as soldiers, the Revolutionary United Front in Sierra Leone would attack a village, kill most of the adults and then take the children. They would take a child and force them to murder one of the surviving adults, preferably their own parent. Once done, the child was theirs for life. The RUF became their new family.
The Khmer Rouge used a variation, where young “recruits” were put through what the regime called “forging” where they participated in an execution. Once they had innocent blood on their hands, they belonged to the Angkar (“the organization”) forever (or so the leader thought*.)
Fifth and final in a series on what it would actually take to mean it when you say “I am Charlie Kirk.”
In 1982, Christian singer-songwriter Keith Green died in a plane crash at twenty-eight years old. He’d built one of the most dynamic ministries in contemporary Christian music, not just a career but a genuine movement, complete with a ministry campus, a publishing operation, and a following that took him seriously because he took them seriously. He challenged comfortable Christianity the way Kirk challenged comfortable conservatism: by showing up in person and making people uncomfortable.
When Green died, his fans were in shock. He’d built something so large, so personal, so tied to his own energy and conviction, that the obvious question hit everyone at the same time: Who’s going to do it now?
And they answered themselves. I guess I need to.
Fourth in a five-part series on what it would actually take to mean it when you say “I am Charlie Kirk.”
There’s a moment in The Great Gatsby that most people remember wrong. They remember the parties, the music, the lights, the crowds pouring into Gatsby’s mansion. They remember the green light across the water. What they forget is how the story ends: not with Gatsby’s death, but with the observation that the people who destroyed him were careless. They smashed things and retreated into their money, and let other people clean up the mess.
Gatsby’s crime wasn’t failure. It was success, the wrong kind, achieved the wrong way, by the wrong person. He didn’t inherit his fortune; he built it. He didn’t join the old-money establishment; he built a bigger house next door. He threw open the doors and invited everyone, and for a while it worked. But the moment his success threatened the structure that the old money depended on, the system disposed of him. Not by confronting him directly, Tom Buchanan didn’t pull the trigger. He pointed the gun in the right direction and let someone else do it.