To the Person Who Called Me a SNOWFLAKE on Facebook:

Dear person,

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Do you know why you called me “snowflake?”

I do. I know exactly why you picked that word. You probably think you know why you chose to call me a “snowflake,” and in one respect, you’re right. I unfriended a friend of yours, and I did it with an accompanying comment which no doubt wasn’t pleasant to receive. I didn’t intend it to be pleasant. I wanted your friend to know how unwelcome someone like her is in any aspect of my life, including my Facebook circle. And it doesn’t surprise me she was offended. I meant to offend her. I added the comment specifically to offend her. I believe she deserved to be offended, and I didn’t think twice about doing it, nor do I have any regrets I did it.

You, in coming to her defense, called me a word I imagine you thought would offend me back. Snowflake.

Ouch.

But allow me to back up and explain how it came to be that she was ever a “friend” of mine in the first place, and how it came to be that I chose to “unfriend” her so rudely.

See, I have been sending out friend requests like a fiend ever since I got my own Facebook place. It’s all to attract readers to Mr. Cope’s Cave, understand? If it weren’t for this blog, I would have never bothered with Facebook or any other avenue of social media.

(I won’t go into all the reasons here why I think social media sucks. Simply not enough room on the Internet and not enough hours in the time/space continuum for a complete examination.) However, my family convinced me that the most convenient way to promote and spread what I write here-in is Facebook. So I did it. Joined up.

And since the purpose was to offer Mr. Cope’s Cave as widely as possible, I went to making “friends” like a squirrel collects acorns. I started out by friending every name I recognized, then friending friends of those people, get it? I figured that as long as Aaron Adirondak (made-up name) was friends with my pal Booty Baggins (another made-up name), then Aaron was good enough for me.

Eventually, somewhere around five hundred friends, I realized that total strangers outnumbered those with whom I had even the most tenuous of relations. In other words, I was sending friend requests to people for no other reason than they were mutual friends with other mutual friends, going back through several other layers of mutual friends, until it all started with someone I might have known in junior high, but hadn’t seen since.

Going beyond even that, by the time I hit 1000, I was sending friend requests to people based solely on whether or not I liked the way they smiled in their picture. Yes, I actually convinced myself that this person … this Carny Coldridge guy (yet another made-up name) … would appreciate the opportunity to read my tri-weekly posts in Mr. Cope’s Cave, judged so merely by the grin dimples in his chin or a twinkle in his eye.

Which is how I stumbled across your friend. The one I offended. Let us call her “Dotty Dimwit”— a made-up name for sure, but one I feel accurately reflects the nature of the woman you rushed to defend.

So when Dotty accepted my invitation to become friends, I went to her page to meet this new person in my Facebook portfolio. Perhaps I might have avoided all the offensiveness had I gone there to take a look before I sent a request. But that way, see, I would be spending half my waking hours investigating who I want on my list. I’d rather make the request, then take a look at those who accept. Saves time, yes?

Anyway, when I opened Dotty’s page, first thing up was a link to Alex Jones’ site. I suspect you, being Dotty’s friend, think Alex Jones is the best thing to come along since the Klan. But I consider Alex Jones to be a repugnant, bloated buffoon with no more credibility, or integrity, than moldy meat.

I thought to give Dotty the benefit of a doubt—that maybe she linked to Alex Jones out of some sense of irony or something, but no. Just past Alex Jones on her page was a link to Hillary Clinton running a pedophile ring out of a New York City pizzaria. And this was dated just three weeks ago, indicating your friend Dotty is so dull, she can’t even keep up with fake news, let alone the real thing.

I didn’t need to see any more. I went to the “Unfriend” button as fast as my clicker could click. Yet I didn’t feel that was nearly enough, simply to unfriend her. I was overcome by the need to let Dotty know what I thought of her. Especially since this last election, I have decided I’ve spent far too many years walking away from ignoramuses without telling them what ignoramuses they are. Seriously, how are they ever supposed to know how damn dumb they are unless someone tells them? Right?

So I sent your friend Dotty Dimwit a message: “I don’t know whether you are crazy, or just plain stupid. Either way, I have no room in my life for the likes of you.”

It was remarkable, I thought, that within 15 minutes, four of Dotty’s true friends had responded to my message. One called me a coward for attacking his friend from the safe distance that Internet communications provide. Another relayed what a kind and thoughtful person Dotty is and how lucky she is to be rid of meanie liberal trash like me.

(Yes. Kind and thoughtful Dotty, who still thinks Hillary is running a child sex ring out of a pizza parlor and listens to a man who calls President Obama “demonic.”)

And then there was you, to whom I dedicate this post. Your only contribution was, “He’s just another snowflake.”

So let me return to the original question—do you know why you called me “snowflake?”

I suspect you would say—if you had the vocabulary and analytical skills to articulate it so precisely—that it was because, to wit: In my rejection of Dotty Dora’s friendship, I demonstrated I am one of those soft-in-the-center pansy-weights who can tolerate no diversity of perspective in my hermatically-sealed liberal bubble.

(Take your time. Read the previous italicized segment over as many times as you have to, until you fully understand the content, then nod if you agree that it accurately represents what your thinking was in calling me “snowflake.”)

Okay then, is that why you think you called me “snowflake?”

Nope. That is not why you called me “snowflake.” You called me a “snowflake” because, like any and all other conservative dunces I have had the misfortune to run across, you have such a dearth of imagination, of creative talent, of humor and of all things even remotely interesting, you are forced to rely, over and over and over and over, on the same, tired, borrowed insults—insults undoubtedly first voiced by some Young Republican TKE boy in a drunken haze … and all the other fucked-up frat boys giggle like baby chipmunks at how clever he is … so the very next day he writes a letter to the school newspaper in which he calls the Black Student Association, or the College Rape Awareness group, or the Campus Democrats, “snowflakes” and it is immediately picked up by the entire Conservative Union and spreads through alt-right venues like a herpes virus in a Turkish bathhouse until it is totally forgotten who first used the word to insult liberals … which hardly matters to him anymore because, by now, he has come out of the closet and is running for Secretary/Treasurer of the Log Cabin Republicans after flunking out of school because he spent too many weekends in a drunken haze.

Or something like that.

Same with all the other insults that jerky little trolls throw at leftists—”libtard,” best example. How many years did you think you were being clever by calling liberals and Democrats “libtards?”  You (along with a million morons like you) acted like you thought of the epithet, yourself. I can picture you sitting at your computer screen, snickering each and every time you used it. “Boy, I sure got that libtard when I called him a ‘libtard.’ Hee hee. Bet he’s already crying his eyes out, the libtard.”

So here’s the deal. We liberals stopped letting the disparagement “libtard” bother us the second time we heard it. And the same with “snowflake.” What you seem incapable of grasping is that, the more people you call a “snowflake”—or a “libtard”—the more empty-headed you sound. It is why we neither want to hear any more from you, or need to. It is why I unfriended your friend, Dotty. Everything you say, everything you are, I despair to think that everything you will ever be, can be boiled down to the same, familiar gunk at the bottom of the pot.

There’s never anything new about you.

Yours Truly,

Bill “Snowflake” Cope

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