Dystopia Left (A short speculative story on Leftist Ideology)


This is a short story that is a speculative reaction to where we are headed concerning individual rights, freedom of speech, and the ability to be oneself. The current leftist PC agenda that promotes groups via special status is nothing but racist and phobic in and of itself. Yet the left gets away with calling those in the middle to right racist and phobic, when their very agenda has been such. If you promote any group over an individual, then congrats... you are in racist and bigoted territory. Just because YOU can't recognize that, doesn't mean the rest of the world is blind to it too. 

Likewise, the left constantly, and rightly calls the right out for being science deniers for environmental issues (even though the left's solutions for them are nothing but more government and ponzi schemes of idiocy), but the left in embracing transgenderism, as anything but a mental illness, and then pushing for laws where the rest of society must accept this normalization of mental illness is also denying biological science. Regardless of how one thinks or feels they are, that does not make it so. Biology, XX and XY, come before a feeling from within. A biology fact most certainly comes before a psychology theory. The rest of society should not have to accept laws that cater to this denial. Having said that, if any adult chooses that path for themselves, then that's their decision. They as an individual can do whatever they want. Forcing laws on the rest of us though... No thanks. Also, introducing this to/and enabling kids into this is downright despicable. 

With that in mind, I give you a short story called Dystopia Left (Rated R for salacious content). If the current PC insanity keeps up, this is the horrifying leftist Utopia we may one day see. 

I kept my head down, eyes to the sidewalk, and mouth shut. If I can make this stretch of the trip to work, without incident, then I’ll be okay. From somewhere off to my left I hear a group shouting at someone. They are saying things like, “Why did you look at her? She’s not meat for you to check out fucker.” “What kind of sick fucking person are you?” To which he responds, “I just thought she looked attractive, I wanted to let her know she is attractive.” I then hear him scream for help. They are beating him. No, keep your feet moving. Don’t look, don’t help, don’t get involved, or they come for you too.

When I finally get to work, I let out a sigh once I’m in the elevator. No one got on the lift with me, so I can relax for this brief moment. I feel like my head is going to explode. The country is so PC now that the slightest infraction could lead to anything from verbal scorn, to a beat down, to losing one’s job. Free speech is a thing of the past. The only people who get to say things freely are those that push the social justice warrior ideology. Most people have become too afraid to say or do anything anymore. Even joking around could get you in trouble.

I get off the elevator and head to my cube. At least it is somewhat private there. I don’t even bother pulling up the news anymore. Ninety-nine percent of the time it is just propaganda.

“Hey, hey, hey, Joe. What’s up my person?”

Charles Clout. He’s an ad executive who thinks he’s a star and a celebrity. I guess he is. The government uses his slogans and lines for their propaganda media.

“You see me on the news last night? They are finally taking that vile and racist movie Gone with the Wind out of digital rotation. People are supposed to bring in any physical copies so they can be burned. It’s hard to believe that that trash has lasted this long. You’d think in a progressive society like this, we would have gotten rid of that filth years ago, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Just racist nonsense. Can’t have that.” I agree, just to make him go away.

“You going to the seminar tonight?”

“Seminar? I wasn’t aware there was one?”

“It was in your email. Cynthia Leigh will be the speaker. She’s helping us white boys get past the internal racism and violence that we are all genetically harboring within. I hear she has some excellent exercises for breathing and silencing those demons. There’s also an intro on reparations that I’m looking forward to. Speaking of that… I’m going to go over to the park tonight and oil rub the protest statue’s as part of my repayment process for the generations that came before me. Got to remember how trash our history is. Right?”

“Yeah, right. I’d come but I have to finish my unity lesson that the state put out. I need to get it in by the end of the week. Tell me how it went though?”

“Oh you bet. Catch you later.”

I feel like opening a drawer and throwing up. No free speech. No liberty. Nothing left of freedom anymore. We’re shackled by the sins of the father. In this case, it would be my great, great, great, great grandfather but the social justice warriors demand repayment in perpetuity. Honestly, it is no wonder suicide rates are up so high. This society is a prison cell.

I open my email and I’m greeted to this message:

Editor Offices

RE: Gender specifics were used again.

We recently noticed that a gender specific was used when referring to Tony Parker again. The named recipient has requested numerous times that named recipient shall not be outed by gender to the public at large. The offending line, with the offending term in bold, that had been missed when this response went out was:

Don’t miss Tony Parker LIVE at the Grand Ballroom for one night only as he introduces guests from the hit play: This is how we Live.

Needless to say, Tony was irate for days at this most extreme offense. The people who worked on this release should report to the main office immediately to sign your termination forms and add your names to the gender education government list. Speaking in assigned gender terms is not something this company will stand for.

Thank you.


It wasn’t my group, but I know the people in the group who did work on it. It sucks for them. This will get them blacklisted in pretty much every editorial position they seek. The government re-education program won’t be fun for them either. Biology denial has been normalized while biological science has been dismissed because an overwhelming number of psychologists at some point in time decided that biology doesn’t matter when it comes to how people feel in the brain. It wasn’t just the normalization of science denial but it was also the normalization of mental illness. You now had to condone and accept both the biology denial and the mental illness, lest you offend someone. It made me sick at night to think about how facts were skewed for feelings.

I just have to make it 9 hours, then walk home, and then I can close my apartment door and lock myself away from this insane world. I can do this.

Once I get home, I sit down in my rocking chair and just turn off my brain. I try to excise all of the stupid non-scientific gender neutral crap, all of the race sins and racist terms being thrown my way, and all of the PC junk of the day. Sometimes I will pull out a book and read about a time when life was so much more friendly. When more people were for a “live and let live” ideal of tolerance over a fascist ideal of forced acceptance through intolerance. I make sure to hide my books when I’m finished reading them. No telling if the building landlord would turn me in or not. I don’t even go online for fun anymore. Every site you go to is tracked. Every word is cataloged. I know one writer who was trying to write a book on early 1980’s crime, he had his universal internet ID revoked because he was Googling searches on New York lifestyle in that time period. He had searched for things specific to downtown New York and Google dinged him. His name went on a blacklist and that was it, he was removed from the net. Denied for life. The last I heard, he had made his way to Mexico after his re-education sentence. He couldn’t take it here anymore.

I sometimes think about heading south. Travel isn’t easy though. Getting out of the country is something that is looked down upon because there is no telling if you can actually come back. Most people just sit tight because re-education is always a pretty good bet for coming back. 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, for a month, of watching streams on Political Correct behavior acceptable for reentry and reintegration into American society. I’ve seen brilliant minds reduced to cheese after going through that brainwashing. So if I left, it would be for good. As it is, that looks like it may be the only way out of this leftist prison cell now.

I heat up some leftovers and begin to eat, of course, someone is knocking on the door just as I take my first bite. I wipe my mouth and go to the door. Looking out of the peephole, it’s the girl from 2B. I crack the door and say, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, can we talk a minute?” She asks.

Against my better judgment I undo the chain and open the door wider, keeping my eyes directed straight at her eyes.

“Sure, what can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to come over and let you know that I would be okay if you initiated joint talks for any proposed relationship territory. I’ve noticed you are single and I’m also without a partner.”

“Oh… Uh… okay.” She is pretty, but I’m scared to go down this route. The rules of relations and gender entanglements are so complex. There are so many ways one could fall into a trap and be sent in for re-education.

“We could go to dinner?” I say.

“That sounds acceptable to me,” she says.

“Friday night?”

“Sure, Seven PM?” She asks.

“I’ll come over and knock then.”

“Okay, see you then,” she says, and offers me a smile.

I smile back and as she turns to leave I close the door. My natural and biological instinct as a man would be to look at her butt and I don’t need to be put in that situation. Who knows if another neighbor would see, or if she suddenly turned around, or a myriad amount of other “what if’s” all of which are no good. I close the door and lock it.

The week passes somewhat quickly. I would be lying to say that I’m not excited for my date. I hope she is less strict than leftist ideology demands, but all the same, I’ll be on my best behavior. I knock on her door promptly at seven and we go to a place of food that would be filed under Italian in another time. Since all associated names from non-acceptable areas have been redacted, I guess you would simply call it the Noodle and Red Sauce place. I keep my eyes directly on hers and she does the same to me. When the order is taken, I make sure not to look directly at the food order taker, as I wouldn’t want the person to think I was looking at them wrong. After the meal, we come back to our apartment building.

“I would like to officially give you permission to give me a kiss,” she says.

“Thank you, I reply,” right before leaning in and gently kissing her warm lips.

“You may also give me a hug.”

I lean in closer and give her a hug. She hugs me back gently.

We separate and she gives me a smile before retreating inside her apartment.

I head back to my apartment, open some bottled water and sit back in my rocking chair. Once again, I go through the motions of releasing myself from the politically correct prison I have to build around myself every time I step foot outside my door. I’m not just mentally tired but physically tired from the defenses I must use, and the disguises I must wear, to hide my true feelings and actions.

The conversations on the date that we had were about work, what we do at work, the places we like to go around town. Admittedly my places were few because it was just too hard to fit in. I told a few harmless jokes about the way my noodles with red sauce looked and I think she gave me a real laugh but it was too hard to tell. We set another date and I have a feeling that that was something I should consider to be a good thing.

The second date went as well the first. She gave permission for some extra minutes of hugging and kissing by the door and then the night was judged to be through. Over the next week I may have looked up and smiled a few times on the way into work, this of course brings stares in my direction. I have to be more careful. I can’t let the happiness of my current situation break my self control in the everyday world. The slightest misstep or look in the wrong direction could easily cause someone offense. So I reiterated to myself that the dangers are all too real and re-education is the penalty for any thought crime that was outed in public.

It was now Friday, I have another date planned for later tonight with Monica. I want things to be perfect because this will be our third date. On the way home from work, I stop at the grocery store to pick up food that I will be cooking for the hopefully romantic dinner. Nerves are definitely a factor. I am absolutely giddy with anticipation.

I turn on the government sanctioned tunes on the radio. I prefer only music stations to the music with lyrics, as they tend to be propaganda only, and I’ve had enough of that. Then I start warming up the oven and prepping the food. I whistle along with the music, mindful not to get too loud. I wouldn’t want a noise ordinance infraction to break up my perfect night. The smell of the food is soon filling up my apartment. The casserole I created takes me back to a simpler time when my Mom and Dad were raising me in a small town in the Mid-West. Dad would sit on the porch after dinner, smoke his pipe, and point out the pretty girls as they were running by the house. Mom would be inside blasting some heavy metal band that she had liked so well back then. That was before all of that was illegal. That was before pointing out pretty girls meant you were shamed and heavy metal was considered anti-good taste music by those who wrote the leftist ideology that the country now ran by. Those were the “good ole’ days” to be sure. So much less stress back then.

The buzzer rings on the oven and I take out the casserole and set it on the middle of my small table with seating for two. The nervousness creeps back in, but I keep telling myself, I’ve got this. I think Monica really likes me. I think that if we can get past all of the officialism of the relations protocols, then just maybe we could have something good here. Still, I will have to feel out her level of PC. I wouldn’t want to just come out and proclaim something and then she would be totally shocked by it. That just wouldn’t do at all.

I have to hurry, she is going to be here any minute now. I run into the bathroom to change, brush my teeth, and take one last look in the mirror to make sure I look okay and am really ready. The knock at the door startles me from my thoughts. You can do this. You’ve got this. No problem. Just don’t be yourself. Not just yet.

I head back out to answer the door.

We eat dinner, laugh over small talk, and enjoy the musical interludes. After I clean up our dirty dishes, we both sit on the couch.

“I officially give you permission to kiss me, hug me, and commence foreplay,” she says.

I can feel a stirring in my nether region. Who would have thought that such a direct term as “commence foreplay” could bring on such an erect feeling? I’m scared though. One misstep and I’m done for.

Things start to get hotter. We are kissing and I let out the words, “You are the most amazing woman ever!”

Everything comes to an abrupt stop.

“You can’t say that,” she says.

“What?” I reply.

“You called me a woman. You should have referred to me as a person. It’s highly offensive that you would call me a woman. If people refer to me as a woman then I would never get ahead in my job. I would constantly be looked down upon as someone who could never excel.”

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, I don’t look at you that way. I see no reason that men or women can’t excel. I was just… I mean… I’m sorry.” I give up. I give in. Anything to diffuse the situation and get the night back on track.

“Okay, if you promise not to do that again. I’ll let it slide,” she says.

I smile, she smiles.

“I give you permission to resume, but maybe we should resume in your bedroom,” she says.

I’m more than excited, I’m about to blast off for the moon with excitement. The dopey smile on my face is probably radiating with my excitement. I lead her back to my small bedroom and we both get on the bed.

We start kissing and rubbing on each other. The heat is rising. Blood is pounding through our veins, raising the temperature of hot flesh that yearns to touch and create passionate friction. I move my hand down further, only pulling back to give Monica a look, to ask if this move had the green light. She looks deeply into my eyes and says, “Yes, keep going.”

I unbutton her jeans and my hand slides beneath the waistline, under her panties, between her legs, but it’s not right. I pull my hand back in horror. My movement is so fast that my momentum takes me off the bed and I fall to the floor.

“What the hell?” I say.

“What’s wrong?” She yells.

“You’re a man,” I say.

“What the fuck, I told you not to assign gender on me.”

“What? I’m not going to be with a man.” I say. “I’m not interested in that at all!”

“I’m not a man. I am a person. Didn’t you enjoy the time we shared on our dates? Didn’t you enjoy the kissing?”

“Because I thought you were a woman,” I say.

“Why does that matter though?”

“Because I’m not biologically attracted to a man and a penis belongs to a man. That is a biological fact. What the hell? Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.

“I don’t have to say anything. I’m not in the wrong here. The law says I don’t have to say shit to you about what I am. You should be okay with me for who I am, not because of some idea of attraction to a specific gender.”

“That’s so stupid. I’m not attracted to… that,” I say. “Maybe someone else is but not me.”She, he, whatever… gets up and storms out of the room. I hear my door slam as I lean up against the wall. I’m disgusted inside. Sickened by the lie that was played on me.

Saturday. I’m sitting in my rocking chair staring out the window at the sky. The door explodes inward. Masked men with automatic weapons bust into the room. I’m hit in the face and I topple from the recliner. The black boots start kicking me in waves. I taste blood in my mouth and feel it warm and running from my head. I’m hoisted up by my arms and carried from the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Monica in the hallway, “That’s what you get for fucking with me you genderist fucking Nazi.” I close my eyes and just let them carry me out. I’m put into the back of a van. Just laying there on the cold floor as they drive me away. I know what’s coming. Re-education. There’s no getting around it. I’ll be on the news. I’ll lose my job. I’ll be made a lesson of. Stay in line with the leftist ideology or this could happen to you too. Never question the slippery slopes or this could happen to you too. Do as the mob tells you or this could happen to you too. Leftist ideology always leads to enslavement. I should have spoken out sooner. Back before this all started going downhill. Now it’s too late and this world is just a leftist Utopian hell. This is our prison.



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