Notes for a One-Woman Show, by Sherri Krynski, 4 of 5

             Turning Point

 

My first love was someone who turned out to be bad for me. It lasted for years longer than it should have.

        Telling Kevin goodbye. No, not telling. Honest talk about our feelings was never our strong suit.

        Showing him goodbye. Walking away. That’s more accurate.

        I’d loved Kevin from the moment I met him, in our basic economics class at UCSC. I looked across the table of students and their notebooks and I saw him. He was sixteen and had beautiful russet brown hair, brown eyes, tall and pretty.

        We found a companionship there: I was the first woman he’d slept with. He was the first person I’d ever fallen in love with.

        And that love I’d felt for him lasted for years, long after we’d stopped having sex. Long after he’d come out as gay and I’d come out as bisexual.

 

We had years apart, and then we met and had years together.

        It started to sour when he went to law school and I’d resumed my studies at UC Berkeley after a few years of international travel.

I think that’s what did it. Mamas don’t let you babies grow up to be lawyers. (I know because I considered being one, once.) In law school, they teach you how to think. How to negotiate. How to maximize your chances of winning. It is the opposite of conciliatory give and take, compromise, and gentleness that a friendship needs.

        He loved me, but he was gay. I was bisexual and didn’t understand the key difference. He would confuse me… clearly, he was attracted to me. He said he loved me. We even thought about marrying someway.

        Then, Kevin met Tom. They fell in love. Tom was a genuinely fine man, bright and sensitive. There was no way I could ethically object to this relationship. And, the part of me that truly wished my friend well, was happy for him.

        But that left me in limbo. In love with someone who couldn’t give what I needed. I would date other people of both genders, and no would measure up.

        At that point, I don’t even think it was Kevin himself whom I loved. I had never really gotten over that first, blind passion. By the time we were older, I knew that my feelings weren’t based on reality. I’d created a pretty suit of clothes in my mind, and I put him in it, whether he fit or not.

        Not that was it was entirely my doing. Kevil would still act very sexual toward me, very much like he was still attracted to me. Often, while in conversations, I’d turn my head to find him staring at me. Usually at my breasts.

        The few times I called him on it, he denied it. Of course he told me I was imagining things. He was in love with Tom, didn’t I know that?

        I felt confused. I felt I was being gaslighted. I felt lonely, and alone.

 

The final straw came when my gynecologist discovered some irregularities in my pap smear. She sent me in for further tests, but she told me that cancer was a real possibility.

I called Kevin at work to tell him. He was away but he promised to call me back.

I didn’t hear from him for days. I had other friends who cared, who were there for me. He was gone – the news was unpleasant, scary, and he was too important to be there for me.

I left him behind after that. Too much disappointment.

It has been years since I’ve seen Kevin, but I still think about him every day.

         

 

 

Notes for a One-Woman Show, by Sherri Krynski, 3 of 5

             Tiffany

 

        I met my nightmare a few years ago. Who I could have been if the fates had been more cruel.

I used to model for art classes. A friend of mine got me started. She showed me Rodin’s sculpture portrait of Balzac. There he stood, huge potbelly, bearded, prominent penis! Proud, ‘look at me! I’m fat, I’m old, my complexion sucks, I’m a genius, I get laid all the time. I’m alpha.’

        If he could do it, I could do it. I found I like the honesty and the power of being the center of attention. It brought in a little money, too which at the time was welcome.

        Anyway, so, there at the studio I met Tiffany. She was sitting next to some guy (she said they were friends.) Silent, I forgot his name. Fatter than I was, wearing a loose flowing striped shirt, red-cheeked and laughing. She reminded me of the fat lady in the circus, there to be gawked at and exhibited.

        We talked. Rather, I sat next to her and she talked. About how she made a living modeling and “doing other things.”

        She asked me if I wanted work. She told me about the house parties she worked at. All big women and the men paying clients for our company, there was a hot tub and lots of bedrooms and very safe, no worries about violence.

        I asked “well, do I have to fuck them?” And she said “no, no one is forced to do anything. But, yeah, that was the general idea.” I told her I’d think about it. She gave me her number.

        The next time Tiffany entered my life was a few months later. My boyfriend and I rented a porn film; “Behind the Green Door II.” There she was, getting laid by four guys at once.

        Her best friend, I forgot his name, was in the film too. In the last scene, we find out THAT HE HAS A VAGINA! Surprise!

        My boyfriend and I broke up shortly after that. I guess that watching a porn film was okay; knowing the actors was not.

         

 

 

Notes for a One-Woman Show, by Sherri Krynski, 2 of 5

             Debby and Barbie

 

        There’s a saying that the “Difference between law and in-law is you can justify yourself before law    (long pause)   …………but never before your in-laws.”

        Every spring, my husband, Nathaniel, my daughter, Hannah, and I travel to Boston for a reunion with his family.  Nat is the youngest of five.  I love them all, but it’s like coming into a play somewhere during Act Two.  They know their history; I’m reading the program notes.  Everyone got cast in their roles long before I showed up. I’m an extra in Aida; I’ve got my spear, and I’m just watching the elephants march on by.

        The entire sibling cast was assembled on the first night of our visit, last year.  The great dramatic question:  where do we want to go out for dinner? 

        MARC, the overachieving, athletic, oh-my-god-he’s-such-a-perfect-golden son that the family thinks he spreads rainbows wherever he walks:  How about seafood?   Very healthy.

 

DAN, the ex-hippie, now a computer geek and family man:  It’s gotta have some vegetarian food for me.

SETH, the patient middle-school teacher who talks to us like we are his 8^th grade students:  Mark, I’m sick of seafood.  Why not a Chinese restaurant?

        NATHANIEL, my husband.  Call Central Casting for an “absent minded mathematics professor” and they’ll send him over right away:   Chinese food on this coast isn’t nearly as good as in San Francisco.  How about an Italian restaurant?

        DEBBIE, the oldest sibling.  The only daughter.  Thin, intense.  A closet smoker.  She has a PhD in Clinical Psychology and thinks she knows everything about human motivations:  Italian food?!  Are you crazy?  Do you know how many carbs there are in pasta?  And how rich those sauces are?  You know, Nathaniel, you really need to watch what you are eating.  You eat too much, and I am worried about you. (PAUSE)  You know what, fine.  I don’t need to go, anyway.  If you all want to go to an Italian restaurant, go without me.  I’m not coming with you.  I’ll stay here and eat whatever is in the house.

 

Ah, Debbie.  Years ago, I coined a name for her unique affliction:  Harpy’s Tourettes.  The enhanced ability to recognize and obsess upon another person’s insecurities combined with a complete inability to SHUT UP ABOUT IT. 

My turn, channeling my inner Butros Butros Ghali diplomat:   Debbie, you know we don’t want to go without you, because we hardly ever see you.  Let’s just talk about it some more.  I bet we will figure out something.

        A few minutes later, miraculously, we found something on which everyone could agree: a Thai restaurant.  It turned out to be lovely and upscale place.  We got one huge table for all of us.  Hannah was next to me, on the end.

        Information for anyone who has never  been to a Thai restaurant with a nine year old girl:  Thai food is weird.  Curry is too spicy and that vegetable dish looks really strange and the chicken noodle soup has green stuff in it.  I slipped into Mom mode.

        OK, Hannah, you know the rule:  I want you to try some of this, but you never have to eat anything you don’t like.  This is a different from what you are used to, and I want you to at least taste it.

        But it’s weird.  This one has pencil shavings in it. 

        Hannah, those are not pencil shavings.  It’s called lemon grass.  It is an herb that makes the dish a little sour.  It tastes like lemon, see?  You don’t eat the lemon grass, just leave it on the side of your plate.

        I don’t like it.

        Fine, okay, give that food to me, put it on my plate, I’ll eat it.   Here, try this tofu dish.

        What’s this wormy thing?

        It’s not a worm, it is a baby corn.  It is just like the big ears of corn we eat sometimes, only this one is so small you can eat the whole thing.  Try it.  It tastes good.

        Yeah, this is okay.  I like it.

 

She likes it!  Yaaay!  Hey, folks, could you please pass down more tofu.  Hannah thinks it’s good.   Now, why don’t we try this eggplant….

        By the end of the meal, I felt pretty good.  Hannah had gotten enough to eat, and I praised her for letting herself be open to trying something new.   I’d enjoyed the food, myself, and had tried some dishes I’d never had before.  Good  choice.

        It took a minute before I realized that someone standing next to me at the table.  It was Debby.   She was frowning.  She leaned into me intensely.

        “I am really worried about what you are doing to your daughter.  Do you realize how much food you have been eating tonight?   Do you realize how much you have been making her eat?   I’ve been watching you, and I don’t like what I see.  You can’t go on in denial about this.  I am really very, very worried.”

        (let time freeze good mood vanished look around and realize where I am)

         They are all watching me.  Anything I do is gonna be the part of the family chronology for years. 

        Oh, crap.

Hannah, I don’t want to stay here, so I am going for a walk.  You can come with me, or stay here at the dinner table with Daddy.  Either one is okay.

I want to come with you, Mommy.

        I took Hannah’s hand.  We walked out of the restaurant into the cool Boston evening.

        Hannah, I’m really mad at Aunt Debby right now.  That’s why I wanted to leave the restaurant.  I just feel really GRRRR!   Are you okay?

        Yeah, Mommy, I’m fine.

        OK, good.  Look, there is a drugstore over there.  Let’s go inside for a while.

        The drugstore was a typical, generic Walgreens.  We entered and Hannah of course went straight for the toys aisle.  I walked to the magazine racks.  Maybe I just needed something to read for a while.

 

Ladies Home Journal.  Redbook.  Cosmopolitan.  Seventeen. Elle.  Glamour.  Allure  Vogue.  Self.  Shape.  Weight Watchers. 

        Hannah?  Sweetheart?  Let’s go.  I am done here.

        I avoided Debbie the rest of our visit, and I was really glad to leave Boston a few days later.   I’d had enough of the in-laws drama for a while.

       

As a treat for Hannah, a few days after we returned to San Francisco,  I took her to a matinee of the stage version of High School Musical at the Orpheum Theatre downtown.

        It was a fun, light show.  The essential question:  Can the Jock and the Brainiac find happiness together while succeeding in their academic and sports interests and also singing the leads in the High School play, even though the mean kids are conspiring to take it all away from them?  The answer is, yes, of course they can.  This is a Disney show, duh?

 

Come on, Sweetheart.  Let’s get out of here.  Did you like the show, Hannah?

Yeah, it was great!!    Wow, there’s a lot of people in this theatre.  We’re moving really slow.

Hey, Hannah, you know what I say?

        What?

Baaaa.

Yeah, baaa.

Baaa.

Baaa.

From behind me, I hear:

UGH, lose some weight!

HEY!

I turn around quickly.  Oh, wow.  It’s Golden Age Barbie!  She’s about seventy years old, and she is wearing her coordinated go-to-theatre outfit.  A basic black dress, matching shoes and handbag.   Perfect hair and makeup of course. Her red earrings and necklace set are the exact same shade as her lipstick.  I’ve never been able to do that!

The Barbie doll I had when I was a kid was eternally poised, with this glazed half-smile on her face.  Golden Age Barbie looks downright terrified.

Barbie sees the look on my face and turns around, trying to walk away from me as fast as she can.  We’re in a crowd of people, though, and she rather reminds me of a salmon swimming upstream.  I grab Hannah’s hand, and follow her. 

Barbie reaches a point where she simply can’t go any further and she has to turn around to face me.  I don’t see the crowd.   There is no one in the room but her and me and the little girl holding tight to my hand.

        EXCUSE ME?!!!  I’ve never seen you in my life and yet you think you have the right to insult me?  How dare you!  Who do you think you are?!!   I’m here to take my girl to a nice show, and for no reason you think you can make fun of me?!  Your behavior is rude and cruel.  They say that age brings wisdom, but that’s clearly not true in your case!  You ought to be ashamed of yourself.  SHAME ON YOU!!

        I keep holding Hannah’s my hand as we walk to our car.   I keep the engine off, and I sit her in the front seat next to me.

        Hannah, checking in.  Are you okay?

        Yeah, I guess.  I’m kinda nervous.   You scared me because you were shouting, and you never shout.

        Yeah.  I was really angry.  But you know I wasn’t mad at you, right?

        Yeah.  I guess I was scared because I wasn’t expecting it.  You just started shouting at that lady.

        Well, I’m sorry if you feel bad.  I just lost my temper.  Do you get what was going on?

        Yeah that lady was mean to you, and she told you to lose weight, and you didn’t do anything to her.

        That’s right.  It’s wrong to say mean things to people and to hurt their feelings.  I am sorry if I scared you, though.   I guess I’m still mad at Aunt Debbie, and when that lady insulted me for no reason, it was just like the last straw, and I lost it. 

        That’s okay.

And we still had a good time at the show, right?

Yeah, it was great!

You know, except for you being bothered by it, I’m not really sorry I yelled at that lady.  Maybe she’ll think twice about insulting strangers in public again.  I don’t know.  I guess I’m still really mad at her.

        Yeah, mommy.  It’s okay.  I love you and I’m proud of you.

        I love you, too, baby girl.

 

………………………….

 

That night, after Hannah was asleep, I took some time alone to think.

I don’t know if I did the right thing or not.  The world is full of mean and inconsiderate people, and you can’t just blow your stack at every one of them.  How do I teach Hannah to handle cruelty while keeping her equilibrium and sense of self worth?

        And I think about Golden Age Barbie, too.  How did she get to where she is?  Why did she think it was appropriate to insult a harmless stranger, in public?  Why did she care so much about my body size in the first place?

The world is full of people like Golden Age Barbie.  Snap judgments and casual cruelty are just facts of life.  I am a fat person, and that means I am a premium target for it. 

        Hannah has got my genes.  There is no way she’s going to grow up to be a thin person.   I can do what I can for her.  I can feed her right, make sure she exercises, do what I can to enhance her self esteem.  I’m proud to see that she doesn’t have an eating disorder.  But I can’t fight Mother Nature, either, and I can’t protect her from unkindness in her life. 

        What if she’s destined to be a big woman when she grows up.  What do I tell her?  What can I teach her?  How do I give her the tools to find confidence and self esteem when there are so many forces lined up to take it away from her?

        And, the big question, what I don’t understand:  why is the world so messed up about us fat people in the first place?

 

 

 

         

 

 

Notes for a One-Woman Show, by Sherri Krynski, 1 of 5

         Notes for a One-Woman Show

        By Sherri Krynski

 

My Name

 

My name is Sherri Beth Hellerstein Krynski.

My parents named me Sherri Beth Krynski. I don’t know why Sherri – they just liked it, I guess. Beth was for grandmother Bertha. Krynski came from Kayvasiwski. (Kay was ow ski.) Zyckowski? I don’t know. I can’t spell these polysyllabic Slavic names. Lost forever, I guess. By the time Dad left the Army, he was Krynski. Thus, so am I.

I feel neutral about Sherri – not a name I hate, not a favorite either. I kept it out of habit, mostly.

        Beth is cool. I like Beth.

        Hellerstein. Ah, Hellerstein. That’s the family name, with the history and the reputation. Nat’s family. My family, none.

        When we got married, we took each other’s last names as a middle name. Thus I am Sherri Beth Hellerstein Krynski, and he is Nathaniel Shawn Krynski Hellerstein.

        Egalitarian, fair, yet maintaining a connection. I married him because he is the kind of man who is willing to share and to be there with me on a fair basis.

        Hannah Laila Krynski Hellerstein is our daughter. She belongs to both of us.

 

         

 

 

Family Legends, 5 of 5

             Requirements

 

A couple of years later, I, her father, sat infant Hannah on a tiny potty-chair. I told her that we require only three things from her: that she learn to walk, that she learn to talk, and that she learn to poop in a potty. I advised her, “Learn just those three things, and we will accept you as human.”

 

Family Legends, 4 of 5

      Born Yesterday

 

          Hannah reports:

        “Mom told me a story that when I was a newborn, just two days old, she spent a good amount of time just holding me and telling obvious lies. ‘The moon is made of cheese’ is the main one I remember. Years later, when I asked her why, she gleefully said it was because just then I, the clueless infant, was literally born yesterday.”

       

 

 

 

         

 

Family Legends, 3 of 5

         Objection

 

        One weekend day, Marjorie was running a slide projector in our living room. Click-chunk. “This is Deborah when she was a baby.” Click-chunk. “This is Marc when he was a baby.” Click-chunk. “This is Daniel when he was a baby.” Click-chunk. “This is Seth when he was a baby.” Click-chunk. “This is Nathaniel when he was a baby.”

        Young me yelled, “I WAS NEVER A BABY!”

        In my defense, I didn’t remember being a baby. Dear reader, do you? I guess we’ll both have to take it on faith.

 

 

 

         

 

 

Family Legends, 2 of 5

             Noncompliance

 

        Right after World War Two, my father went to Japan as a doctor for the Occupation Army. He brought along his wife Marjorie, his daughter Deborah, his young son Marc, and his then-youngest son Dan. (Seth and I were yet to be born.)

        Aboard the ship, Earl found Marc repeatedly throwing a paper airplane towards an open porthole. Marc threw, missed, and retrieved the airplane, threw, missed, retrieved. Marc said to Earl, “Try to throw this airplane through that porthole.” Dad aimed, threw, and the airplane went straight through.

        Marc started to cry. Dad asked why, and Marc said “I told you to try to do it, not to do it!”

 

 

         

 

 

Family Legends, 1 of 5

           Playing Chicken with Earl

 

My father, Earl Hellerstein, told me this story when I was a young lad, many years after it happened. It was a home-front war story. During World War 2, my Dad served on a secret mission. His mission was to truck supplies for the armed forces. He did not know why he was trucking those supplies, for he did not need to know; but he did need to know what those supplies were, and where he was going. The truck he drove was full of high explosives. His destination was a secret weapons laboratory, in a small town in the American Southwest, named Los Alamos.

He did not know then, but he knew by the time that he told me this tale, that he was working for the Manhattan Project. Young me hung upon his words, wide-eyed.

It was a long drive, through boring empty desert. An approaching driver chose to break the boredom. He shifted into Dad’s lane and stayed there. And stayed there, and stayed there. He was playing chicken!

Decades later, I blurted, “What did you do?!”

My father mimicked holding a steering wheel. He said, “I did nothing at all. I kept driving, as if nobody was in my lane, and pretty soon, nobody was.”

Young me had two realizations.

First, that the other guy (and it was certainly a guy) made five mistakes:

1. He played chicken...

2. ... with an Army truck...

3. ... filled with high explosives...

4. ... for the Manhattan project...

5. ... driven by my Dad.

The second realization was that it’s a miracle that I exist!

Since then I have realized that I have no proof that this incident ever occurred, but nonetheless I know for certain, from personal experience, that my father was that stubborn.

 

         

 

 

In praise of hypocrisy, 8 of 8

           This Essay is Hypocritical

           Compared to such celestial heights - and abysmal depths - of duplicity, most mundane deception is naive candor. How anticlimactic, then, for this essay to end by denouncing itself!

          For consider this essay. It praises hypocrisy as a virtue - but does it possess that virtue? I say that it does just as much as it does not!

          For if this essay is hypocritical, then its praise of hypocrisy would express its own values; but that would be sincerity, not hypocrisy. On the other hand, if this essay is not hypocritical, then its praise of hypocrisy would be insincere, and that would be hypocrisy.

          If this essay is hypocritical, then it is sincere. If it is sincere, then it is hypocritical. Therefore this essay is as hypocritical as it is not. It sums to zero. Like hypocrisy itself, it has two faces. Its praise is ridicule and its ridicule is praise.

          That is why you, dear reader, need not take this essay at face value. You are free to misinterpret this essay any way you please.

          How convenient!

 

In praise of hypocrisy, 7 of 8

           Sublime Hypocrisy

           The hypocrisy-based community offers perfect freedom from responsibility. It revels in the triumph of the whim. Under its care, consequence is reversed; the innocent are punished, the guilty are protected, the able are ousted, the incompetent are rewarded, the virtuous are cursed and the vicious are blessed. By the power of pride, true is false and false is true, upon command. The hypocrisy-based community transcends veracity to attain impunity. O rapture!

          You cannot find a more ancient creed than Hypocrisy; nor one more faithfully practiced by the reputable; nor a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

          Hypocrisy has the strength of ten because its heart is impure. Hypocrisy destroys virtue in order to save it; for what profit it a man to save his own soul, but lose the world?

          What mere saint can rival Hypocrisy? For a saint can only redeem the repentant; but Hypocrisy rewards its worshippers without insisting that they change their ways. Why, then, bother with meddlesome saints? What need for repentance when you have Hypocrisy?

          What mere angel can rival Hypocrisy? For an angel is a messenger, serving the truth; but Hypocrisy is its own boss, self-made, telling its own truths, creating its own reality. Hypocrisy is worship of itself, by itself, and for itself. Hypocrisy rushes in where angels fear to tread.

          What mere creator can rival Hypocrisy? For a creator offers possibilities, but Hypocrisy offers impossibilities. It proclaims a luxurious mirage, spurious by design, free of meaning, ruled by whim, fraudulently concocted out of Hypocrisy’s own emptiness. What mere creator would dare to emit such chaos?
          Whom then shall I compare Hypocrisy to? Beyond saint, beyond angel, beyond even creator...

          Whom could I possibly compare it to but...

          ... a certain politician, here unnamed!

In praise of hypocrisy, 6 of 8

           Curing the Yet-Somehow Disease

          Such is the healing convenience of absolute hypocrisy that merely admitting its existence can ease a troubled mind. Consider this anguished cry:
          “The bill is called the Clear Skies Initiative, and yet it increases air pollution.”
          Consider the mental turmoil expressed by those two words, ‘and yet’. They evoke cognitive dissonance, shock, awe and confusion. The speaker is stunned by the mighty chasm between rhetoric and reality.
          Fear not, O sufferer; relief is at hand. Know that absolute hypocrisy exists; and in the light of that revelation, contemplate this statement:
          “The bill is called the Clear Skies Initiative, and therefore it increases air pollution.”
          From ‘and yet’ to ‘and therefore’; that’s one small verbal step, and one giant mental leap. Clarity replaces confusion; what had made no sense before, now makes perfect sense. Reason is no longer violated by the contradiction; instead it is vindicated. The mind, re-energized, rejects paralysis. Blessed release!

          Consider these cries of pain:

“He promised smaller government, but instead

he made government bigger.”
“His party preaches fiscal responsibility, yet somehow

their budget is unbalanced.”
“He is eager to send others to war, even though

as a youth he dodged the draft.”
“He promised reform, but paradoxically

he appointed corrupt regulators.”
“His foreign policy ironically endangers national security.”
“He preaches liberty even as he works against it.”

Compare them to these bold roars:

 

“He promised smaller government, so of course

he made government bigger.”
“His party preaches fiscal responsibility; and that is why

their budget is unbalanced.”
“He is eager to send others to war, precisely because

as a youth he dodged the draft.”
“He promised reform, so naturally

he appointed corrupt regulators.”
“His foreign policy deliberately endangers national security.”
“He preaches liberty because he works against it.”

          From bondage to liberation, merely by observing hypocrisy. Imagine then the effect of participating in hypocrisy!

In praise of hypocrisy, 5 of 8

           Lesser-Evilism

          There’s a fine line between relative and absolute hypocrisy. Consider the case of Lesser-Evilism.

          “Choose the lesser of two evils”; that’s the classic advice of the hypocrite sage. As a compromise it is perhaps forgivable. It doesn’t pretend that its choice is good, just that the alternative is worse. An uncomfortable doctrine; it promises at best a holding action, more likely a disorderly retreat.

          But now consider this mutated version of that advice: “The lesser of two evils is therefore good.” This theory, which I call Lesser-Evilism, is very convenient; for it guarantees a foolproof path to virtue. To be good, you need only be other than somebody else who is worse.

           So if Paul steals $2 from Peter, and if Paul and Saul are rivals, then isn’t Saul justified in stealing only $1 from Peter? Even Peter will agree that’s only half as evil. And if Saul then kicked Peter, then wouldn’t Paul be in the right if he retaliated by merely slapping Peter? Another lesser evil!

          Why stop there? $10 is less than $20; vandalism is not as bad as arson; armed robbery isn’t nearly as scary as kidnapping; and so on. The possibilities are endless! In fact Paul and Saul can lesser-evil poor Peter straight into the grave, with Paul and Saul alternately not-to-blame.

          Note that Paul and Saul are rivals in name, but they’re partners in practice. Their crimes justify each other. Paul and Saul have a lot more in common with each other than either of them has with Peter. And as for poor Peter, he has only himself not-to-blame. After all, he got what he didn’t deserve.

          You’d think that Lesser-Evilism would fail when Paul and Saul are both too obviously wrong to justify themselves or each other. But that is precisely when hypocrisy becomes absolute, and doublethink takes over. Lesser becomes greater; so Lesser-Evilism becomes Greater-Evilism, and the race to the bottom accelerates towards its goal.

          The trouble with Lesser-Evilism is that you can never be sure that the lesser evil is lesser; but you can always be sure that the lesser evil is evil. (If you weren’t, then there would be no talk of lesser evils.) Thus Lesser-Evilism tends to revert to Evilism; the belief that all evil is good. Evilism is, of course, a core hypocritical value. Once you accept it as a moral axiom, then all else follows.