I was at a small political house party this week, and its facilitator imposed an icebreaker in which we went around the room and told one another what makes us "a badass."
I am not shitting you. As if a real badass would participate in a lame-ass exercise like that.
I was a badass for buying a business last spring. The lady next to me was a badass for escaping war-torn Bosnia 20 years ago. We were both badasses!
Two years ago, I declared that "badass" isn't badass anymore. But it's still socially useful, it seems. It's a way for soccer moms and baseball dads to feel a little, tiny-teeny-weeny bit hip, with a dash of hipster.
When really, our sense of originality, linguistic individuality and intellectual dignity—these are all dead.
And judging from easy merriment we seemed to have in discussing with strangers our status as badassess, long dead.