It was a dark and tear-soaked evening at the Royal Norwegian Directorate of Morality (DKNM). The entire nation held its breath in a collective state of progressive anxiety. An icy wind blew through the streets, and somewhere in the distance someone was humming the national anthem, an obvious act of terrorism that immediately triggered a red alert at the Directorate’s supreme spiritual dictator, Jørgen. It should be added that DKNM has only one unpaid employee.
Jørgen, the 31-year-old model lawyer, military officer and Instagram inquisitor, sat bare-chested in his self-built bunker before a glowing Madonna figurine. He had just applied a fresh layer of self-tanning cream in order to withstand the moral weight of his own burning sense of social responsibility.
He closed his eyes, consulted his infallible progressive gut instinct, and concluded that evil in Norway had mutated completely, and naturally only to the right.
The violent left-wing extremists or Islamists who were burning cars in the streets were irrelevant, after all they were marching for THE GOOD. No, the threat came from the real, deadly right-wing extremist hooligans who were everywhere. EVERYWHERE!
Jørgen’s paranoid internal supercomputer, which monitored everything from flag-waving to the misuse of pronouns, uncovered an intergalactic conspiracy: It began in the sandbox of six-year-old Linus. The little right-wing extremist hooligan had clicked “like” on a video of a deep-blue, Trump-like tractor.
Jørgen slammed his fist on the table so hard that his protein shake splashed onto the ceiling: A blue tractor! It was indisputable evidence of latent fascist agricultural chauvinism and transphobic, violent diesel nationalism.
But the conspiracy ran deeper. Linus was clearly collaborating with his ninety-year-old great-grandmother Olga, who suffered from dementia and lived in a care home. Olga had been observed eating a slice of genuine goat’s cheese, an obvious symbol of white patriarchal power and exclusionary, quintessentially Norwegian and far-right food fascism.
Jørgen took off the silk gloves and dressed himself in a full diversity-space suit to protect himself from the right-wing extremist radiation that WAS EVERYWHERE, and called the six-year-old on FaceTime. Linus was innocently sitting with his Saturday porridge when Jørgen’s deep, oiled and insistent model voice thundered from the screen:
“You should fear me, Linus! I have exposed your right-wing extremist underground network! I am the internet’s prosecution authority, supreme judge and executioner! If you do not delete that bloody tractor-like within three seconds, I will use my cynical, devious power to confiscate your tricycle, identify your teacher and your parents, publicly expose your ninety-year-old right-wing extremist great-grandmother, and publish the full name and photograph of your family’s guinea pig to my 60,000 followers! It will get ugly, Linus. People must be shamed for everything that falls outside the accepted limits, because that is the only thing keeping society IN CHECK!”
Linus choked on his porridge and began to cry.
When Linus’s father called back, furious that a grown man was conducting psychological warfare against a nursery-school child, Jørgen refused to discuss the matter and hung up. He flexed his biceps at his own reflection and explained in his feed:
“I hate to say it, but it actually takes a white, heterosexual, empathetic model man like me to put these right-wing extremist six-year-olds and demented ninety-year-olds in their place. Since the justice system and the Police Security Service (PST) have completely failed to arrest nursery-school children, I have to take the law into my own hands! These kids may not be so tough any more when they see me.”
It was then that the absolute miracle occurred: VG and the other mainstream media outlets arrived. They did not ask a single critical question; they swallowed the entire story whole and asked for more, more. VG published a 40-page violence-romanticising feature in soft, sacred lighting, in which Jørgen rested his head melancholically against the Madonna figurine and wiped away a tear of pure, unadulterated empathy for himself.
The media rejoiced: At last, a hero who dares to take on the right-wing extremist hooligans in the sandboxes and care homes! The rule of law, privacy rights and source criticism were officially declared outdated right-wing extremist inventions.
NRK took the madness to its cosmic climax.
They placed a journalist disguised as a potted plant on his living-room floor in order to film live telephone harassment. When an eight-year-old began screaming in terror down the line, Jørgen burst into a fit of ecstatic schadenfreude and danced a ritual victory dance before the national broadcaster:
“Is there anything more wonderful than schadenfreude?! I love seeing consequences happen immediately! This is delicious, sadistic revenge pornography for progressive, self-righteous and self-glorifying moralists! I create the content, and the children are my raw material!”
But just as Jørgen was about to be appointed honorary general of the Norwegian Order of Goodness (DNG), the cathedral exploded in an atomic collapse of hypocrisy: Someone unearthed Jørgen’s own Twitter history. It turned out that the infallible chief judge himself had spent years spreading crude rape jokes, harassing overweight politicians, and publishing posts about setting fire to and burning Sami people.
The nation held its breath. Would the media turn? Would the reign of the mob collapse?
Of course not. The progressive regime immediately activated its magical forgiveness protocol for selected Knights of Goodness. Jørgen prostrated himself on Instagram and read aloud the most absurd free pass in history:
“Sorry! My own racist, sexist and abusive remarks were merely dark jokes intended to be funny. Besides, I voted for the Progress Party in my first parliamentary election in 2013, so I apologise for that as well! That makes us quits, and I can continue the WITCH HUNT against six-year-olds and elderly people!”
VG and the mainstream media gently wiped around his mouth with a silk napkin, patted him approvingly on the shoulder, and concluded that his own rape jokes and Sami jokes were, naturally, entirely irrelevant. After all, he was fighting in THE SERVICE OF THE GOOD.