New generations aren’t learning about Berke Breathed’s Bloom County from their schools, peers, or influencers. Comic strips in general seem a forgotten artform among The Kids These Days. Recently a young coworker looked at the Linus Van Pelt standing in the li’l Funko Pop collection on my desk and called him “Lionel”. I wept more than a little inside. But some of us olds will never forget the wisdom we picked up from the newspaper funnies.

Nearly 40 years since its original publication a couple weekends before I turned 13, I’ve never forgotten that simple quote from P. Opus, the world’s largest-nosed penguin. I’ve thought about it a lot ever since — offline and here. The voices in my head have found no reason to retire it yet, not when society keeps proving him true.

The quote pops to the front of my brain whenever I encounter something that reeks of easy conformism, unsettling groupthink, or reflex tribalism.

Sometimes there are valid reasons why billions of humans lean a particular way in unison. Often there are invalid reasons why millions of humans stray from the paths of the righteous or the realms of the sensible.

Sometimes they arrive at the same conclusions through a rational process. Sometimes they just copy/paste loud directives into their own heads with no intermediate analysis of their own.

Sometimes they think alike and it’s perfect harmony. Sometimes they play along because they’re desperate to be part of something bigger than themselves, even if it’s worse than themselves.

At various stages in my life I’ve applied it to explain situations ranging from the benign to the malignant and at every gray stopover in between.

Judging why fans flock to musicians I don’t get.

Shaking my head whenever another reality show tops the ratings and wins all the awards and attention.

Furrowing my brow at the universal desirability of the word “influencer” as a job title.

Grumbling whenever lexicographers decide a word means what it means and/or now means the opposite of what it means.

Wincing when pundits end declarative non-question sentences with “…right?”

Grimacing at geeks who spell “Spider-Man” as one word without the hyphen and sometimes with a small ‘m’.

Hitting Mach 1 with my mouse wheel as I scroll past pointless Facebook debates conducted with all the decorum of a drunken brawl at Josie’s Bar.

Watching helplessly as loved ones worship the worst candidate.

Watching helplessly as loved ones idolize the second worst candidate.

Sighing with relief in a moment of “There but for the grace of God go I” when I watch the D and F students who never grew up into A or B adults derive their entire worldviews from unaccountable fringe cliques and unregulated websites whose “content” in a brighter timeline would be bottom-stacked under the justifiably unprinted detritus of newspaper crank files.

Facepalming when ostensibly professional news purveyors overstate their cases for maximum fearmongering because doomscrolled terrors mesmerize visitors into clicking harder, sharing broader, and filling the shallow ad-dollar coffers faster. Sometimes it’s exaggeration of what really happened; sometimes it’s flimsy speculation about what could, might, may, or “is said to” happen next, but it’s never the best-case scenario. The town criers’ guild recruits too many Chicken Littles and not nearly enough truly prescient Cassandras.

Lamenting those who cheat, steal, harm, or kill to please their parasocial overlords who will never know their names.

Shuffling away from those who rationalize such sins for the sake of their “team”. As if the only way through the gates of Heaven is an application whose sole question is “Do you have a team affiliation? (Y/N)” Like, it doesn’t matter what you’re a member of, as long as you’re a member of something. If you belonged to anything belongable ever, you won the game of life. Well done, my evil and undiscerning minion. Come enjoy the afterlife banquet as a reward for your outstanding achievements in the field of lockstep followship. Extra desserts if you defended any of the above offenses with “eye for an eye” like a ten-year-old or “They started it!” like a six-year-old.

…

“If two million people do a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing.”

It’s not my favorite feeling. Sometimes it’s condescending. At other times, hypocritical. I’m a sinner over here, too. Sometimes the lone wolf is a stylish antihero. More often it’s Pee-Wee Herman rasping, “I’m a loner, Dottie. A REBEL.”

But America won’t let that quote fade from my memory. Some days it’s the only advice that reminds me: when I’m outnumbered, I might not necessarily be crazy. Sometimes, as a dork named Skinner once surmised, it really is the children who are wrong. I can’t say I feel any less lonely for the reassurance, though.

And it doesn’t have to be two million. Sadly, you can apply it to any number of millions.