Tragedy is Easy... Comity is Hard

I'm a people person, by which I mean, "I am a person, and I haven't throttled the living daylights out of anyone yet, even though they most likely deserve it." I should probably add that to my resume.

Part of me, the part of me that dreams of being world dictator — and not some pussy world dictator, either, who'd tell James Bond his plans to obliterate the world before sending him off to some ridiculous Rube Goldberg-style death contraption that would inevitably have a loose screw or faulty transister, allowing Bond to escape with some lame one-liner, but the type of world dictator who'd shoot Bond before throwing him into the shark pit because I honestly couldn't care less whether the sharks liked their dinner struggling or not — wonders what dropping this passive-agressive veil of comity and world peace for a moment would be like. I could call my fellow human beings on their rudeness, their antisocial behavior, and their downright inability to follow the Golden Rule before fantasizing about sending them to the catch-all plutonium mines.

I'm not sure what would happen.

I imagine that people would budge. There would be a catharsis: I'm no longer insignificant; I yelled, "Move, asshole!" and this asshole got out of my way with only a mutter, lamenting his own new-found insignificance in my world. People would treat me. With respect. What a wonderful world.