"Daddy Karl Marx is unarguably one of the greatest sociologists of all time!!" Said no one ever. Parsons firmly believed that this grey haired, Santa looking mf was extremely overhyped. Sure, he's contributed a lot, but if you think about it, what has he really done? He's caused nothing but trouble. Society was fine the way it was before he showed up. Everything's functional as it is, no need for silly revolutions and eating the rich. Was he completely out of his mind?? Parsons would love nothing more than to punch the ever living shite out of him if the opportunity presented itself, the smug German gimp.
No matter what Parsons was doing, no matter where he was, Karl's name would always somehow pop up into conversation. Nobody understood how angry this made him. Surely there are better things to talk about, other people to give praise to other than him? It angered him that his own name wasn't out circling in conversations. Would Parsons ever admit to his undeniable jealousy? Absolutely not. Everyone picked up on it; the way he would tense up and try to change the subject whenever his name was mentioned. No one would ever ask him to his face if he was jealous, but everyone he interacted with knew it. All but one.
His best friend Durkheim would never pass up the opportunity to tease Parsons about his jealousy. If there was anyone he could knock the lights out of other than Karl, it would be Durkheim. His response to the insufferable, light hearted harassment was always the same, "shut the fuck up you unseasoned cabbage, at least I'm not a surrendering French bastard like you."
"I think it's time you got a new insult, I've become immune now." Durkheim would retort with one eyebrow raised, evidently unfazed by Parsons' attempt at humiliating him.
"Hon hon you fromagey bitch" Parsons retaliated with the utmost smug expression plastered across his face. Durkheim just shook his head in response, sis really thought he did something. "I don't get why everyone feels the need to suck him off so hard, he's nothing revolutionary."
"Tell you what you should do: write your own book. Sure, the communist manifesto is one of the worlds most recognised pieces of writing and you've got a lot to compete with but it's worth a shot. It's either that or create your own revolution."
Parsons raised his eyebrow at the ridiculous suggestion. How the hell was he supposed to produce a book bigger and better than the communist manifesto? Durkheim's alternative proposition of starting a revolution almost seemed like a good idea in comparison to his first idea.
But the more Parsons ran the words of wisdom bestowed upon him through his mind, the more he thought about how it could be a reasonable, reachable goal. How hard can it be? All he has to do is write some meaningless words on a piece of paper. Easy money. All he needs to do is find out how to appeal to his audience of young, impressionable Tories, which shouldn't be too hard; just say whatever they want to hear!
'The capitalist elites are going to spaff in their pants when they read this' Parsons thought to himself, taking a seat at the mahogany desk situated in the middle of his office. Unlocking the top desk drawer, he rummaged around to find a fresh sheet of paper that didn't have the communist king's face crudely doodle on it only to be scribbled out in blood red ink.
This piece of literary art would make Karl shit himself in fear when he read it, Parsons would make sure of it.
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Sociology? More like stuff-my-holeogy | Karl Marx x Talcott Parsons
HistoryczneParsons is very jealous of Karl's success as an activist for all the povs living on council estates to look up to and decides to write his own book to rival him. Unfortunately, things don't quite go as expected in his quest to save the rich from bei...
