I sure hope nobody has discovered the lifeless body of Frank Oz’s career in a ditch somewhere. The voice/creator/puppeteer of Yoda stepped forward earlier this week to boldly state, “Crazy, progressivism is.” And that usually means a fatwa of sorts is put out for the one who refuses to drink the woke Kool-Aid.
More specifically, Oz came to the defense of Bert and Ernie, characters whom he also breathed life into, by taking issue with a writer of Sesame Street who said the two longtime buddies were in, in fact, gay.
Except: “They’re not, of course,” Oz tweeted.
“But why that question? Does it really matter? Why the need to define people as only gay? There’s much more to a human being than just straightness or gayness,” Oz said. “I created Bert. I know what and who he is.”
So that settles it, then. Yeah, right. Consider it about as settled as Pope Francis’ orthodoxy.
The truth rarely sets us free any more, but instead is usually urinated on in a dark alley somewhere by an emotionally juvenile anarchist passing themselves off as a reasonable adult. Oz’s own understanding and defense of the intellectual property that he created was thus viewed as counterfeit by those like a comedian named Rhea Butcher, because in progressivism, “my truth” always trumps “the truth.”
“As a gay kid who grew up with immense happiness from your creations,” tweeted Butcher, “this tweet makes me so very sad.”
Well, that’s nothing short of insane. If you insist that lying about something is not only a fundamental requirement of your happiness, but that such a lie must also be accepted by others despite the obvious evidence to the contrary, your opinions are forfeit. Quite simply, you shouldn’t matter in terms of being eligible to stand at the table of civilized debate. Not only do Oz’s detractors stand at that table, though, they are standing on top of it now, jumping up and down on it until its legs crumble under the weight of intellectual feces.
Butcher is telling you that your role, Oz’s role, everybody’s role in her life is to scratch her itches and tickle her fancies. My body, my choice. Your body, my choice. Everything you say or do is for me or else. Now watch as she bends reality like one of those dreams from “Inception” on acid.