Lying

I love fiction, but I don't like lies. Apparently, this is a symptom of my autism, and everyone else loves lying. And loves being lied to. And thinks that lies are gosh-darned wonderful. I've just about grasped white lies, and have been known to tell one or two of the "Yes, I totally remembered your birthday! It is SO remembered! Remembered it is!" stripe.

I've grasped that the purpose of lies is to avoid hurt feelings. Other lies... my sad little "But, but, that's not TRUE!" is drowned out by the general noise of the world.

My uncle lives in the Netherlands, which doesn't have as vast a tabloid media as the UK. He therefore has the energy to actually become upset at factual errata in newspapers.

"Look, this is about Putin and Russia - it calls them "the Reds". What Reds? THERE ARE NO REDS! Do they write that we're still at war with Adolf Hitler? Because that would make a great story too..."

I know one Red in person, I suppose. He sleeps for half the day and spends the other half driving his wheelchair into things. He is not a Threat to the Free World.

I'm not even sure that it's rabid media bigotry that gets me upset. Maybe it's just when the "facts" therein are irrevocably Wrong (as an ev0l modernist I'd argue that the two often coincide, but I can see why others would disagree).

I like tabloids for the naked ladies, but for some reason my eyes always stray towards the words.

They vary even less, nowadays. First page: denouncement of a gang of youths who have murdered some poor bastard.

Second page: incitement to hatred of a particular group, or at least denial of their personhood.

Moonlogic? ANYONE out there not enjoying the moonlogic?

Maybe it is the bigotry that upsets me after all. When someone finds me an opinion both bigoted and factually correct, I'll know the difference.