ADAM ARMOUR: Using the immense power of cancellation responsibly
Apr. 18—Megadeth nearly fell off the bed when I started yelling at him.
"We're canceling things!" I hollered in a sudden burst of excitement.
He'd been sleeping, of course, the way cats do for 27 hours a day. But I felt this news was worth being stirred. I pushed my phone under the cat's nose so he could see the screen.
"Take a look at what this guy I would occasionally pass by in high school just posted to Facebook."
Mega responded by craning his neck to put some distance between the device and his snout. For a moment, I was offended. But then I remembered cats aren't particularly savvy with social media ... or reading.
I withdrew the phone and did the honors.
"So, this guy has a long rant about how everything's getting canceled, and he cites a bunch of examples of people he says have basically been erased for ... I don't know. Stuff. He's kinda vague. It's mostly politicians, looks like. And some kids' stuff, for some reason. Looks like the state of Georgia might be out, too. The post was pretty long, so I just kind of skimmed it.
"But listen to this part." I snapped my fingers, which caused Mega to momentarily pause his midday, after-nap bath and give me a hard look. I began to read:
"Cancel culture has always had its sights on the freethinkers among us ... those who choose to run against the media narrative's current. For the sin of daring to have an opinion that deviates from those of the masses, they are punished not with censure, but total erasure. As if they'd never existed at all. The woke among us can cancel anyone or anything. Even you."
I looked up from my phone.
"Not sure why anyone would want to cancel me, but the rest of this seems pretty great," I told my cat. "If I'm to take this guy at his word, the 'woke' — and I guess that's people who are awake, which seems like a reasonable requirement — anyway, they have the power to wish something they don't like out of existence. To 'cancel' it, if you will.
"I'm frequently awake," I told Mega, positively giddy with the bounty of soon-to-be nonexistent possibilities.
That's when it occurred to me: Despite basically writing a Tolstoy novel on the subject, my former classmate failed to detail the limits of this power. How much could I cancel? How often? I elected to play it safe.
"Let's say I only get one cancellation," I said. "Better make it count."
I snapped my fingers when it came to me. Mega's eyes shot open again in surprise.
"I'd like to cancel the sun."
Mega sighed and closed his eyes. No doubt, he thought I was being hyperbolic.
"Not all the time, of course," I clarified. "Because, you know, it sustains all life on this planet. No, I just want to cancel the sun at that specific time in the morning when I'm trying to either get to work or drop the kid off at school, and I stop at a traffic light at that one busy intersection but then can't look up at the light to see when it turns green because the sun is just right there in my face, searing my eyeballs into little black hunks of ash. So I just keep sitting there until the car behind me honks because the driver didn't lose his sunglasses like I did and therefore can see that the light has been green for, like, at least 20 seconds, so then I get embarrassed and pull out as quickly as I can because I feel like a total idiot."
I nodded to myself.
"Yeah, I think I'd like to cancel that," I told the cat. "I don't want to be irresponsible with my one cancellation. What do you think?"
Mega yawned, stared at me for a few seconds with his big yellow eyes, then lowered his head onto his paws.
"I'm using mine to end this conversation," he said.
Good thing he's rarely awake.
ADAM ARMOUR is the news editor for the Daily Journal and former general manager of The Itawamba County Times. You may reach him via his Twitter handle, @admarmr.