The argument
rages today about whether beauty should be such a valued commodity. It’s a prayer to an impotent god, for beauty will always be valued as long as sex is considered at all worth engaging in. Looking at
Miranda Kerr or
Brad Pitt is just too much fun for young and old, and, like the war on drugs (which also rates its victories in terms of kilos), the war on beauty will only ever enjoy victory by snatches against the great tsunami of human sexual propulsion. A more long-sighted policy is required, and there is no stratagem quite so patient as that which relies on evolution.
It is not because of some hiccup in our DNA that we instinctively despise the unattractive. The truth is that nobody wants to breed an ugly human race. Even those who champion the rights of the aesthetically challenged want us to view the grotesque through a more sympathetic lens - to
see them as beautiful (“in their own way”…
groan!) in spite of our instinctive revulsion. Essentially, they want the same thing as the rest of us; a more ‘beautiful’ world, the only difference being they want roses planted in our spectacles, rather than actually existing in the garden bed. They are the dwellers of the world of
The Matrix, where beauty is but a delusion. It’s a philosophical two bagger – it’s not the critic of bad art who is the problem, but the bad art itself. It is right that we not want to look at it.
But the ugly can’t change their lot on their own, which is why they choose to argue with others besides themselves. They can learn nothing from debates with the fortunate, or those who are attracted to them. It is doubtful the zebra affected her transformation due to observations from some combative cheetah (“To be honest, you guys stand out like pricks in a brothel"). She achieved it because she
had to, her numbers being decimated, her future as a species falling victim to the laws of the land.
And this is why we have to help the unattractive – and thus ourselves - by making life not easier for them, but more difficult.
The wonderful outcome of this will be that everyone in the human race will be beautiful – not through the changing of minds, or cosmetic tomfoolery, or the convincing of people that what they feel in their loins is false, but from actual evolutionary rebellion. There’ll be no need for supermodels, or for the girlie magazines the feminists so despise, for a simple look out the window at the old lady pruning the garden next door will be all the schoolboy requires. The feminist utopia will have arrived, on the very same train they tried to derail.
Then perhaps they’ll shut the **** up – although, somehow, I doubt it.
