Clincher: (n) a fact, argument, or event that settles a matter conclusively.

I often tell audiences that the best way to refrain from being an asshole and judging other folks is to maintain a profile of realization.

And here’s the realization: when you discover that people are unable to own up to mistakes and make a clean breast of an unfortunate event,
you can quietly walk away so as to not be around when they blow up.

It’s a clincher.

Although some people extol the beauty of morality and others pride themselves on pursuing perfection, those who possess great Earthly wisdom comprehend that failure is imminent and is only survived through repentance.

I don’t argue with people about this. Some travelers think it’s their job to convince others of the error of their ways. Yet there are enough pitfalls, stumbling blocks and quicksand available in the jungle that it is completely unnecessary for me to cut the legs out from under a friend or enemy.

It’s a clincher.

Wait and see what happens when someone falls short of the mark. What do they do? If they choose to rationalize, blame others or try to explain in painful detail why it is not exactly their fault, then you should give them an anemic smile.

Back your way out of the room and get away from the destruction that will soon be their life.


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Battered: (adj) injured by repeated blows or punishment.Dictionary B

Not all blemishes are pimples–but all blemishes may end up being called pimples and must suffer the accusation.

It is the nature of the human race to try to simplify things down to smaller categories. It is actually one of our more endearing qualities, because when we complicate matters, we become a living comedy of fleshy error.

Such it is with the word “battered,”

I have always had great respect for human beings, but I have occasionally looked into the mirror of humanity and seen my blemishes next to those who have pimples.

In other words–without further twisting this little parable–I have watched and even counseled people who have battered other souls, and realized that some of the symptoms of their actions live inside of me, and have even sprouted from my tongue.

I can try to rationalize it; I can insist that I am so adorable, generally speaking, that I am exempt.

I can shout from the housetops that I respect women, but as long as there is one nasty chauvinist remark lingering in my brain, I must be aware that I have too much in common with the batterer.

I do not think we succeed by comparing ourselves favorably to others.

I think our true power is when we find the first seedlings of a crop of sin inside ourselves.

  • I have been rude.
  • I have been overbearing.
  • I have interrupted.
  • I have been sarcastic.
  • I have been dismissive.
  • And even though I have not raised my hand and struck another traveler in anger, I have used my wit and words to bruise.

Eliminating all domestic violence will not protect women until the men who would never be violent discover the ways that they still batter.

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