“The world is flat,” or so says Mr. Friedman, whose style reminds me of those simplistic Protestants preachers who continually package the world (and eternity no less) into 3-piece alliterative sermons. Friedman’s endless, all-encompassing catch-phrase simplifications create the ludicrous impression that every fact has a corresponding parochial colloquialism which the hoi polloi can grasp and utilize as effortlessly as they can incorporate phrases like “the golden herd” and “the untouchables” into the mass-produced American lingo. Which shouldn’t imply that Mr. Friedman is full of shit, in fact, his insight and remarkable educational abilities separate him from a plebian southern Baptist preacher or a grand Amarillo Slim style hustler.

     O Platitude! You alone are holy and revered! Beautiful, magnificently just Platitude, bless us with Your millennial dominion! We exalt You, no, exaltation’s impossible here; rather, we flatter You with self-reference: You equalizer.

      The antipodal introduction serves only to state by way of reference that equality is the latest lingua franca. If we admit that all human reality exists by means of mental portrayal, and communication by means of common description, then what could be more valuable than platitudes? Equality increases its own axiological power by claiming pseudonyms as fundamental to human interaction. From this level ground, the world appears flat indeed; squished even, perhaps by a heavy democratic press, stamping equality into our moral code, our power systems, our very way of thinking! Thinking with our flatheads, we perceive everything mutual, mainstream, common, universal, fashionable, public, and popular, as perfect.

     The “degeneration and diminution of man into the perfect herd animal, this animalization of man into the dwarf animal of equal rights and claims.” Yes indeed, Wise Herr Nietzsche, our ideal is a motley, muddled, unmanly man of mixed metals! And should we succeed? What then shall we call this new species? A Platypus!

     But hope! O Reader who sees in that platypus nothing but a bleak gray existence, happiest in the dull hazy fog of bed-ridden mornings, clouding all activity with fuliginous morals like thick smoke chokes the last pale glimpse of living fire from previously virulent veins. See the platypus rejoicing before the mirrored sight of balanced justice and hope for her self-destruction. What’s that? You wish to be a conqueror; I doubt your strength. But I say “hope” because I have firm faith in the platypus’ failure. How? A generation’s suicidal slash shall leave her squawking and squealing at the sight of blood-wet red forearm flesh flapping, her cuntish sons continually slashing veins in search of significance. Will they find passion in those equal bloodstreams? NO. Virulence? NO. Strength? NO. Specialty? NO. Love? NO. Meaning?… Ah, you think this problem of the meaning of life troubles us now? Wait until we’re equal!