Steve Sailer posted a good Swiftian parody of the public theatrics around the Donald Sterling matter
The President previewed a variety of new NSA initiatives, such as data-mining the petabyte of private phone calls and emails stored in the Utah Data Center for evidence of Americans engaging in racial stereotyping, evincing a lack of personal enthusiasm for blacks, or being insufficiently outraged at Donald T. Sterling.
This parody is too close for comfort. If you look past the frothing lunatics that form the majority of the “lynch Sterling” mob, to what its (relatively) intelligent enthusiasts are saying, you might conclude that Sterling’s real crime was indeed in his thoughts. I think it was Max Kellerman (ESPN LA radio) who said something along the lines of: the reason Sterling is being punished is because of “the evil that is in his heart”. I’ve heard this kind of sentiment more than once.
Part of the problem with America’s new Secular Puritans is that they are religious zealots, but without any tradition to reflect upon. Thus, there will be no voice of reason citing a holy figure from their scriptures, with aphorisms like “let he among you who is without sin cast the first stone”.
I grew up Protestant, and never much liked the church culture. But in comparison to the current deranged PC climate, those Christians seem like the height of civilization. I yearn for a simpler time when wisdom professed that only God can really know what’s in another man’s heart, let alone the heart of a stranger you know nothing about except a snippet of illicit recording of his responses to surreptitiously leading questions by his mistress.
Footnote: As is usually the case, those casually flinging around accusations of harboring “hatred in their hearts” are the very ones whose speech evince hatred the most clearly. Here’s the unflappably PC Bill Simmons opining on the features of Donald Sterling’s body, in between imputing a random slew of ugly thoughts to his mind:
We were in Section 101 by then, near the Clippers bench, with Sterling sullenly sitting across from us. His legs always straddled the center stripe at midcourt, like he was telling himself, I AM DEAD CENTER! I AM EXACTLY DEAD CENTER! He dressed like a potbellied grim reaper. His colorless skin always made me wonder if he spent his days sleeping in a coffin. Before games, he would hurriedly arrange the seating for everyone in his extended party, ordering them into various Section 111 seats and pointing around like a drill sergeant. From there, he’d stand in front of his seat and greet everyone around him. Eventually, he’d sit down and fold his arms and never, ever, ever, ever move. He’d just sit there, his arms folded across his massive stomach. I ran out of ways to make Weekend at Bernie’s jokes about him by 2011.