When I was about nine years old I was riding in the back of our station wagon, destination forgotted. At some point in the journey I espied a house fly, trapped in the automobile, zipping most expeditiously from the back of the vehicle to the front.
Oh, ho! thinks I. We're traveling at approximately sixty miles per hour. That fly is traveling about thirty mles an hour. That there fly is traveling at ninety mile an hour! In relative speed, of course. Across the fruited plain. Why, thought me, if you could build a series of long tunnels within long tunnels, and have a blue bottle fly travel within the innermost tunnel, why, you could break the speed of light!
Fast forward ten years. I am in a train, travelling from Connecticut to Pennsylvania Station. Stoned beyond belief on some mystical new strain of Colombian dick knock. We are travelling about sixty miles an hour. And I spot a lone house fly. Zipping most expeditiously from the back of the club car to the front.
Oh, ho! thinks I. Behold the speedy fly. He must be doing ninety miles an hour. In relative speed, of course.
Which is why I am an idiot. Nanotubes was the term I was searching for. But I had not created them yet.
Which, in a Magellanic way, brings me 'round the circumference to the point of the issue. The Nub, as we called those of less, shall we say, endowed gifts in the locker rooms. (And that's what we called them, we Tragically Gifted Few, I flush to say).
For the point is, is the great What If? Just because I'd seen the Future in blow flies doesn't make me prescient. Just because, standing in line at an urban Kroger in 1978 whacked upon that new seedless weed (no patent there) and saying to the cashier You know, if you had little strips of line on the packages, containing all the product's information from price to restock quantities, oh, let's call them bar codes, this would be so much easier) doesn't make me Edgar Cayce, or Nostrumdamus.
The unalloyed fact is, Life ain't fair. And there is no cure, other than that very personal moment when a compleat stranger removes your innards and throws them into a plastic bucket and treacles preservatives into your collapsed arteries. Then paints and powders your face up like you were Jack, the Ripper's, last victim. I, for one, relish the moment my offspring look upon my death mask, so to speak, and whisper Dad looks like an Edwardian whore.
Anywhats, there is no cure for the fucking blues that accrues when one sees an obvious failure as a human being succeed in wild pecuniary fashion. There is no Ojibwah chant that enures one against the inevitable moment when Righteousness takes five, and Pedantry, Preenage, Onanism, and Egoism rules the nest.
There is no escape from the Undeserving. That is part and parcel of existence.
Like that dream you have, where you've killed someone and you don't know why, these things just are.
My paltry advice is just to take it.
My sense of nostalgia for the Senator oft belies a true reckoning of quizzical behaviors and the odd streak of subterranean malice he could exhibit from time to time. This was Old Skullpop talking, of course, but a youngster doesn't parse the sources, merely the outcomes.
I was the fourth of five children. By the time my little brother and I came long the wind was pretty much out of the Senator's sail insofar as rigid obedience, and discipline. He was luffing. That was the upside. The downside was the two of us brothers shared more stertor than senator with the Big He.
Life takes its toll. Or, rather, one takes one's toll upon the life one is bequeathed. That is verity. The only variable is the size of the bite, the voracity of the appetite one aims to sate. And the Senator had wrung a sizeably large toll from his godly mien by the time I was thirteen or so.
And so: while my elder sibilants balanced the hyperfueled courtroom collossus one bragged about at school with the stern harshmaster one weathered in the privacies of home, so my brother and I balanced the lesser ambitioned wisp with the pater familias become tolerant through degradation.
More simply said, we got away with murder.
Hair to our nipples, beer, whiskey, fucking Mary Jane, baby. The Senator had had a Come to Jesus with Jesus Himself recently, and been metaphysically flayed in the process. I pretty much imagine the Nazarene hovering over the hospital bed, holding the Senator's costic sweetbreads in His hand, in sorrowful manner.
The Senator? He was just goddam happy to be around, after that.
I saw the change around the time I was thirteen or fourteen. Before the Come to Jesus, even, I suppose. My sister was come home from college for the weekend, with a boyfriend. (At this point the Senator was collecting properties, always essaying to stay one good bender away from the ever-pursuing bride. We still had the farm, still had the summer cottage in Carolina, and he had added to the mix an abysmal bungalow a block away from the prep school my brother and I were attending, along with my middle sister. It was a fucking abomination, this place, but it was a convenience to the Senator, and so we said nothing, like the little Tar Babies we were.)
This wasn't a truly serious thing with my sister, but he was a boyfriend. Nice guy, too. Father was an airline pilot, good boy. And the Senator got drunk and hid in the bedroom, as I recall, and wouldn't come out. Foofahrooed about in there, and pissed and moaned, I think.
Don't you fucking grow up on me.
At any rate, we kids talked in the kitchen for a while, then my sister and her boyfriend "split", as they called it back then, because the "scene" certainly wasn't "grooving" at all.
Fucking Ada, that.
A few nights later my mother caught the Senator fondling his Ruger Blackhawk .357, en bagge, as the French say, and muttering about fixing this shit. I know this because I was there. And, as any good mom does when she finds her husband whipsawing a revolver open to check the rounds while vowing to correct the alignment of the planets, both big and small, and that little prick, she scowled at me and closed the bedroom door. The Senator had apparently reached critical mass, I suppose. The boiling point, in Faradiacal terms. Fissionable, he were. What they call a supercritical mass.
Fah. I knew he wouldn't make that trip. I share those genes, after all. No, the next day was an exemplary example of exemplifical behavior: I played upon his remorse for short term gain. I shook him down. Suggested twenty dollars would shut my little pie hole.
Humble Pie's Rockin' the Fillmore, I believe, and Fireball by Deep Purple. Alas and alack, sure. I could have had a fucking Dodge Charger put on blocks until my 16th birthday, had I been smarter, or more venal. I sold out cheap to a master litigator. Who, incidentally, owned my ass.
Those scrawful albums still tetch my heart, though. Once upon a while, I'll still play a tune or three. And fantasize about how awesome that road trip from Savannah to Statesboro would have been, if only mom had allowed it, and the Senator had took me along.
Flynny asked in the comments below for a reading list for the
insipient Klansman querying mind. As I told her, everthing I know in life I learned from William Faulkner's Sanctuary, which work to this day informs my opinion of corn cobs. For the more broad-minded, however, I can recommend the ten books below. Obviously my political tastes prejudice my choices, but I thinks it's a good start. And certainly any "Top 10" list is sure to engender nays and cries of bullshit, but it's like the old Ridgeley-Michael argument, ain't it?
Do all of these belong on a Top 10 list? Who knows. I just recommend these because I happen to have read them. I can't speak for anything I haven't.
Burke's is but a pamphlet, really. Kirk's is a doctoral dissertation, and Goldwater's is a brief snapshot of the writer's pet bugaboos. Goldberg's book belongs. It's well-documented and particularly timely as we watch a trillion dollar-plus experiment in fascist corporatism unfold.
Feel free to critique. Should you give umbrage I'll just delete the comment anyway. Fucker.
In no particular order:
The Road to Serfdom, Friedrich Hayek, 1944
The Conservative Mind, Russell Kirk, 1953
The Conscience of a Conservative, Barry Goldwater, 1960
Liberal Fascism, Jonah Goldberg, 2008
A History of the Modern World, 1917 to the 1980s, Paul Johnson, 1983
The Wealth of Nations, Adam Smith, 1776
Up From Liberalism, William F. Buckley, 1961
Reflections on the Revolution in France, Edmund Burke, 1790
The Closing of the American Mind, Allan Bloom, 1987
Witness, Whittaker Chambers, 1952
Now go fill up the waste basket in your bathroom with corn cobs and get reading.
I ponder, from time to time, what makes the liberal mind cycle. Not often, but certainly enough to generalize an hypothesis or two. And yes, I like generalizations. There is absolutely nothing wrong with them. Exceptions prove the rule, they say. Stereotyping, that finest of pastimes, gets consistently bad press. In point of fact, it gets the stereotypical bum's rush, if you will.
The primary manifestation of a liberal mind is the contrarian impulse. This can be outwardly manifested negatively, as shock value, or positively, as sanctimony. The former attempts to revel in one's contrarian nature by shocking the sensibilities of the "uptight", "bourgeois", or "traditional" classes with outrageous exposition. The latter attempts to create a plane of higher moral authority upon which to cluck pietistically at the lower removes of the evolutionary ladder.
Hence the supposedly progressive self-regard from those espousing vulgarity, antitheism, and promiscuity on the cultural side, and wealth redistribution, socialism, anarchy, and nanny statism on the political side. And although conservatives and classical liberals are constantly debased as puritanical bigots, it is actually the liberal who is the classic, traditional scold. Scolding is of immense importance for the liberal, for without it there is no proof of one's higher measure of sensitivity, concern, altruism, avant garde taste, and collectivist superiority.
This is all knowable, of course, and provable both dialectically and empirically. Why, it is almost stereotypical, one might say.
No, my search for the gist, the kernel, the raison d'etre of the liberal mind sensed something else, something more intrinsic than the mundane finger-splaying of the self-possessedly smug. Knowing this idea had germinated somewhere in the burgeoning thought processes of my youth, I reached back and found it in my Poe.
He averred that we all have within us the "spirit of perverseness", the predisposition to committ vile or petty acts against the ordered structure merely for the malicious pleasure of doing so. He more eloquently than I referred to this inclination as
"...the unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself..."
This tidbit appears on the recently upscaled White House site:
President Obama will keep the broken promises made by President Bush to rebuild New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. He and Vice President Biden will take steps to ensure that the federal government will never again allow such catastrophic failures in emergency planning and response to occur.
President Obama swiftly responded to Hurricane Katrina. Citing the Bush Administration's "unconscionable ineptitude" in responding to Hurricane Katrina, then-Senator Obama introduced legislation requiring disaster planners to take into account the specific needs of low-income hurricane victims.
Okay. I was giving the man his day, his year, his administration. A faint breeze of circumspection had been wafting across his bow for a couple of weeks. I was going to shut the fuck up and exhibit the class the left has been incapable of showing since 1968. No more.
Fuck him. That dandy, that piebald pimp. And his rat shack wife, who was strolling down Pennsylvania Avenue today incomprehensibly dressed like one of the terra cotta soldiers from the Imperial Tombs of China exhibit. Only with a fatter ass. And snappers that looked like they could chomp through a cocoanut. How often has Obama regretted those marital banns, one wonders?
Graceless in victory, these liberals. And we know, of course, how they behave in defeat.
This item will disappear, of course. Just like all of the snide, cheapshot, partisan, venal, juvenile, imbecilic, and unscrupulous things that have emanated from the man's circle in the last year. And he will distance himself from it, and no word will be uttered by the press against him for it. As the ancient and apocryphal sun worshippers who stared at mighty Sol until they were blinded, so the media are unseeing and unknowing, reduced to the tactile self-comfort of the thrill upon the thigh, the flutter of the heart, the buckling of the knee.
Partisan pissing about on the White House website, of all things. Where's the goddamn outrage, to steal a phrase from Bobby Dole? More importantly, where is the goddamn class? But, then, we are speaking of liberals. The same bilge rats that hallooed their disdain at Bush as he was departing the city. Class. These fucking losers have no sense of history, or decorum, or protocol, or class. Just a perpetually aggrieved cohort of snot-faced, soiled pink diaper babies.
Fuck them all. Recall, if you will, the outcry about "gravitas" in 2000. I want these precious, unicorn-sucking, rainbow-farting shitheels to show me some gravitas. Beginning with Obama. Orcs do not simply materialize around a man, after all. They are nurtured, fed, agitated and instigated. Obama sowed the whirlwind, let us see if he might reap it.
Obama reminds me of a chorus line boy with a stiletto in his sole. All flat chest and high kick and beautiful smile and slick moves, until you move in on his turf. Which I am reasonably certain is the reins of power in Obama's case. Not another fellow's prick. But the point obtains, and the histrionics will be the same.
Ah, well. My well-laid plan to inure myself to this disgusting spectacle, and ignore it, spoilt like chicken meat on an untended crab line. It's not my fault, of course. I just became outraged that my taxes subsidized a partisan hitpiece on a venerable government website by a feral gang of tailsnapping jackals. Pardon me for wanting my fucking money back.
Updte: Thanks for the link, Dan!
You've come to the wrong place for
anarchy KAOS, brother.
I always take a sip of
Kentucky bourbon Tennessee sour mash on January 19th. Just to keep things in perspective.
Prior to our move to the farm the Senator spent most weekends there. The tiny corrugated fiber bungalow was being morphed into a two-story house, albeit one that contained the gist, the soul, of the bungalow embedded in its heart. The center of the house remained the bungalow. To the north side was added two large bedrooms. To the south was added a great room and an upstairs master suite, so the Senator could retire to his own devices, forty or so yards from us whelps at the far side of the house. I mention this only to provide backdrop as to why the Senator, and all of us, were always at the farm before we moved there permanently in '66.
The Senator had a vision, as well. Across the private dirt driveway in front of the house he was building a lake. A pond, really. A sluice, actually. His vision was to cut a circular lake, with an island of several acres of hardwood and pine, at the center. He was going to build a bridge across this pond, this sluice, to the island.
The Senator hired a man named Briggs to dig this sluice, this trench, with his backhoe. And a mighty backhoe it was. The trench, the ditch, was about thirty or forty feet across. Just wide enough for a stiff breeze to conjure some waves. Briggs went to work hellbent for Naugahyde, and did well for a while. He encountered difficulties, however, on the "back forty". The far side of the land, while fecund in hardwood, was hardwood of the cyprus variety. The land degenerated into a quicksand bog that mired the backhoe's treads in a sucking purgatorium. The machine lay enswaddled in muck, hoe arm lifted impotently and vainly, like a La Brea beast trapped in tar boils.
Briggs, probably drunk at the time of the enmuckification, wandered off to get more drunker still. The Senator essayed the situation, stirred his Windsor Canadian, and shrugged. "It looks like a circle from this side," he rationalized. "I'm fine with it." He then drove off, ostensibly to look for Briggs, and locate a source of catfish fingerlings to stock the pond, the trench, for when it filled with rainwater.
We returned a few weekends later to assess the situation. The trench, the ditch, had two or three feet of water in it. Whether the Senator had pumped water in from the well I am at a loss to say, for I was only eight years old. But when a wind (a zephyr!) came up you could see the tiny waves snap and dance on the surface. A bona fide lake we had, verily.
Now the Senator, ever one for surprises, produced a small plastic sailboat. This sailboat was for my older brother to ply the ocean blue, as it were. My brother had brought a friend for the weekend: they would make the journey across the mighty trench together.
"You have to sail it to the far side," the Senator admonished. "That'll make you a saltwater tar," he added.
I have no idea if the Senator was serious when he made these statements, or was merely having sport. I presume the latter, and fear the former. "You'll have to climb aboard on the shore," he added, "then cast off." This would launch the sailboat.
For a sailboat it was, in lieu of any other definition. It had a hull, and a mast, and a sail. There was no rudder, the idea being I presume to steer the thing by the boom, which was a slender plastic piece similar to a broomstick. About the hull: it was approximately five feet long, and constructed of the same blue plastic that one finds in patio baby pools for ten dollars. Entirely bereft of balance, or ballast, it was a devilishly unstable piece of bouyant catastrophe. The mast was of similar cheap plastic, and the plastic sail was akin to kite material, which is to say a passionate fart would rend it to shreds.
I almost forgot to add: in an apparent nod to the inherent unseaworthiness of the craft the manufacturer had included an outrigger: a length of styrofoam attached to two strips that would presumably stabilize the craft should one actually venture to launch it. The outrigger also added some Polynesian flair to the entire sordid enterprise.
My brother, being a game little cock, clambered aboard with his friend. And after some jovial hectoring from the Senator about the proper way to set the fluttering sail, they were launched from shore by the vigorous thrust of a well-placed size 12 boot.
I am reminded at this point in the tale of my studies of calculus at university. For even as calculus is at some level the science of infinitesimals, and even as I recall there are locations on a number line that are not zero, but are zero distance from zero, so I would describe the linear path of the Good Ship Fiasco, which, although having made sail, was instantaneously capsized before journey could be measured.
Tossed upon the cruel sea, my brother and his first mate, although waist deep in miasmic waters, still managed to lift the mighty vessel upon their heads, decant it of Neptune's liquor, and scramble again aboard. Tiny jaws thrust forward, they yanked the boom to catch wind. Only to find themselves foundered again, soaked as millers in a fetid bilge.
Four times the craft sundered, four times the lads exhibited tenacity worthy of Sysiphus in seeing the thing through (for who would fail before him? What boy would capitulate?) before the Senator, either tired of the spectacle or devoid of refreshment or both, and having guffawed himself hoarse, cried "Enough!" and mercifully let them off the hook.
The blue plastic sailboat disappeared after that day, I know not where. I assume the Senator threw it in the bed of the yellow Ranchero and hauled it off the garbage dump, there to smash it into pieces for the crime of humbling his boy.
Because it was the boat's fault, of course. I would not be surprised to learn the Senator had sued the manufacturer, too, for emotional distress. Not my brother's, of course. His.
When the Senator first started manifesting the early stages of Alzheimer's it was unclear precisely what was ocurring, as the symptoms correlated rather closely to his traditional iconoclasm and general bullheadedness. The malady was also not well-known at the time, and generally misunderstood, the more vernacular pickling being in vogue among the physicians in the region. The only early manifestations in the Senator I recall were fire. And, of course, sailboats.
The Senator at one point curiously abandoned the traditional male's swagger in his firecraft. Few men I've known take their firebuilding skills lightly. I have in fact seen young men, flush with red liquor, beat each other senseless on Daufuskie Island over campfire disputations. One never offers unsolicited advice to another man over the manner, size, or flammability of his blaze. You are never taught this as a child; it naturally evidences itself. In fact, I believe the word flamboyant is derived from primitive souls strutting around a well-built inferno.
And yet the Senator, for reasons unfathomable, determined at one point that the essence of a fire was the fire itself. Heretical, yes, but there it was. Instead of employing all of his skills in creating a bier in the fireplace that would leap spontaneously into glorious oxidation, he began using gasoline as an accelerant, like a rank crude arsonist.
He was not completely bereft of mythos, of course. Not yet. There was still rite and ritual involved. He had, if fact, developed a particular and inappropriate fondness for a small juice glass. It was embellished with decals of orange slices, and was reminescent of something you would see in an old Howard Johnson restaurant, while awaiting your flapjacks and johnnycakes. This glass, source of affection unknown to the writer, was the only vessel he ever used to bastardize his fireplace with gasoline.
Gasoline certainly causes an immediate immolation of the fuel itself, if not the tinder underneath, and so when the Senator had placed a small bit of burning paper under his carefully constructed logs, he would toss the juice glass of petrol into the waiting maw, and grin malevolently as the impact-burst leapt a foot outside the fireplace. "Burn, baby, burn!" he would chortle as the flames reflected satanically in his oversized eyeglasses. The cry was ritual, too. Always Burn, baby, burn. The Senator was certainly no aficionado of the Black Panthers, and yet in his dotage I think he found a perverse, childlike pleasure in their nihilistic philosophy. Who among us, after all, hasn't wanted to shout that at some point in their life, as the Molotov cocktail arced gracefully toward its target?
Did I say sailboats? Yes. The other discordant note was the love-hate, push-pull, gee-haw with the sailboats. The Senator went through a phase where he loved to halloo the sailboats. He lived on the mighty Wilmington River at this point, half a mile wide as it flowed into Wassaw Sound and, thence, the Atlantic Ocean. Every weekend there was a bootleg, unsanctioned, dogcatchers regatta of some sort on the river, starting at the Savannah Inn and Country Club (where the Senator had honeymooned when it was the old Oglethorpe Hotel), heading out into the sound, and returning.
The boats were running downwind on the return, and often had an incoming tide with them, yet many of the skippers liked to shave close to the docks. It was impertinent and dangerous, but part of the allure of a gimcrack regatta. The Senator would espy the brightly-colored spinnakers from his Florida room and holler "Woo-hoo! Look at the sailboats!" He would then stride down to the dock magisterially, as the boats closed and the skippers inched closer to the row of docks that dotted the western shore.
The Senator would point gaily at the sails, laughing in full measure, then, as the skippers passed the dock and gave him a smug "Ain't I grand?" grin he was shake his fist and scream "Get away from my God damn dock!"
It's hard to lose your wind when you're on a broad reach, but shitting one's foul weather gear, or falling off enough to hit another boat is quite doable. The sailors eventually learned to stay away from the Senator's dock, and I am proud to say I never once saw him wave his .357 at them. That particular flourish was usually reserved for close acquaintances, and family.
My personal belief is the Senator had never mastered the righteous joys of sailing, and he was both envious and bemused. Being a pragmatist, he could never understand why one would labor so intensively in millennia-old technology when a big-assed engine could get one there in style. He probably also thought sailors were showboats and dilettantes, and very queer with their colorful sails and fancyboy outfits. The only chrome he prized on a boat was a gimble that held his lethal cocktail. I'm glad he never synergized the gasoline and sailboats, however. A properly heaved juice glass of low-octane followed by an en fuego Zippo could have had deleterious effects on all involved.
Next: I, Barfly. My ill-advised attempt to become a 23-year-old rummy at the Crowbar Lounge.
I found this at Drudge: Obama's USAService.org website has hinky links to all sorts of groovy shit, including an Obama Celebration and Shoe Toss in the City of Angles:
"Come celebrate with us," wrote Gilbert Gazan, 46, in the event's description. "Say goodbye to old Georgie ... Throw a shoe at a poster of Bush and win a free drink."
I tip my hat to the Florida Gators, and their brutish win over Oklahoma for the national championship. For, as a Georgia fan, I understand Utah is the real national champion. They won all their games, then went into the heart of Old Dixie and beat Alabama like rented mules. Plus, I'm still pissed at Tim Tebow for being a shit to my daughter in high school. Fuck that Christianist, as Sully would say. Well, Sully would say fuck him where it hurts, but you gather my gist, don't you, my gleaners?
No, I want to talk about real gators. Alligators. For between us girls it came to pass, in the land of
Canaa Savannah, that an election was held. It was the Senator's last election for public office. 1963. He was in his early thirties, and had tired of politics, because his beloved mother had recently passed on, and because he had to run as a Democrat in the Solid South, which fact curled his lip. He'd won his first senate seat as an independent, but that trick doesn't work for long. Eventually one must join a machine for support, and this was not his bag.
And so, six weeks before the election, he and my mother embarked on a five week Mediterranean cruise on the S.S. United States. The Senator was determined to lose the election.
His law partner, meanwhile, had other plans: to wit, he wanted to drive a truck down to Florida and purchase a thousand baby alligators, which he intended to release on West Broad Street in the wee hours election day morning. The purpose being obvious, of course. West Broad Street in Savannah was the heart of the black community. Where it had once been the Harlem of Savannah, it had not yet become its Compton.
A thousand baby alligators swarming West Broad Street would have evoked fears that the big gators were right behind them, seeking their offspring. Savannah is eat up with gators anyhow.
The Senator vetoed the idea. I'm sure it appealed to him on several levels (he had, after all, had his friends drive their ambulances through the black neighborhoods on previous election days, lights and sireens flashing. It was called "Put Down the Vote", I believe). But he drew the line, possibly his only line ever, here. I believe he was scared it would work.
I only know of this artifact from the Jim Crow Wars because the Senator's old law partner, John Calhoun, told my brother when he was practicing law with Big John.
"I begged your daddy to let me buy them alligators," he said with one part remorse, and two parts reproach. "But he wouldn't let me."
All that background to say I really can't begrudge Obama his little day in the sun. Although as he is of Kenyan descent he'd have to pay full dollar for the righteous indignation one could have for a plug nickel on West Broad Street. But I'm a magnanimous creature. I'll give Obama a three baby alligator head start, and see how well he does.
My biggest contention with the Leftist establishment (and my contentions are legion) is, in all likelihood, merely a synthesis of all of their egregious faults. And just as one reduces a sauce to gravy, the Leftist playbook can be distilled into the bitter alum of dishonesty.
I have no gripe with those who believe there are different paths to an ideal, healthy America. I'm fairly convinced that America is no Leftist's dream, however, hence the charge of dishonesty. The smallest of children can smoke out a platitude, and I take no solace in the Left's charade that they want as I do for the nation, and western civilization as a whole. It is a bald-faced lie, built upon a shifting, unstable Sargasso Sea of prevarication.
Now, before I am inundated with hysterical charges of bad faith and impugned motive, allow me to state my case, and explain why I am convinced mine adversaries are morally corrupt dissemblers, foot soldiers in a mass movement of legerdemain populated by hacks, grifters, con artists, prestidigitators, and sharps.
Harsh words, indeed. However true, and verifiable. For a Leftist does not possess the courage of his convictions, merely the courage of his emotions. And mere emotions, tempestuous and mercurial, are best reserved for high school locker rooms and little girls' tea parties, not the arduous work of maintaining a civilization. That is adult work, for which the average Leftist is ill-prepared.
How does the Leftist lie? By giving voice to paeans to fairness while assiduously utilizing subterfuge and dishonesty to wrangle his way. Here is an example:
Voter and election fraud: from Landslide Lyndon Johnson's Senate theft in 1948 to JFK's presidential theft in 1960 to Al Gore's attempted coup in 2000 to Chris Gregoire's pilferage of the Washington governorship in 2004 to Al Franken's apparent burgling in Minnesota in 2008, the Leftist uses fraud to steal elections in broad daylight, even as they bleat about "counting all the votes". These people never want to count all the votes. Under guise of "fairness" they will employ any means possible, including ballot box-stuffing, Mafia influence, corruption of secretaries of state, fraudulent voter registration, and the attempted subversion of the United States Supreme Court to peculate the franchise, to wantonly steal what they cannot win by popular mandate. It is a character issue, this filching. It is the prime personality trait of the Leftist. For, like their Soviet antecedents, it's all about the winning, never about the means to an end. Power is the goal, and any means is not only tolerated, but glorified. ACORN, Barack Obama's Siamese penpal, is a racketeering conspiracy disguised as a community organizing, "get out the vote" enterprise. Nothing could be further from the truth. As the myriad of investigations will prove, this is a subversive organization that is attempting to steal by fraud what they can never achieve by the voters' wishes.
Another example of Leftist perfidy? Consider the welfare state. No one except perhaps the imaginary hordes of Klansmen and top-hatted whip-cracking capitalist swine that inhabit Leftists' fevered nightmares begrudges any down-on-their-luck chump a handout. In fact, there are many fine private organizations that perform splendid work in this area. Even allowing for that, however, I've personally never met another human being who would begrudge a poor family food and shelter from the public sector. It is the institutionalization of this safety net that beggars the imagination with its litany of disastrous unintended consequences. The Great Society has done more to create a Poverty Society than anything else. Paying mothers to have children out of wedlock, then dangling the relief check over their heads like the sword of Damocles is one of the greatest examples of cruelty disguised as benefit imaginable. To actually take the bread from a baby's mouth if his father materializes to provide stability to the family is so immeasurably satanic it boggles the mind. And yet the Leftist does this with a disgusting simper of righteousness. For it behooves the Leftist, the statist, to create a Needful Class. A Beholden Caste. And when that caste assumes majority status in a society, when the Have Nots outnumber the Haves, a society, nay a civilization, will break down in volatile and merciless manner.
This selfsame deceit manifests itself time and again in the Leftist philosophy. Those who cry "Peace!" the loudest are not for peace per se, they are merely the enemies of their own civilization. They cried Peace! when Reagan ousted communist thugs in Grenada, they shouted Peace! against the contras, they shouted Peace! against the Israelis in a stomach-curdling example of relativism.
One never heard, however, the cries of Peace! when the Soviets rolled into Budapest or Prague or Afghanistan, you will never hear Peace! when the Palestinians and Hezbollah reign rockets of death upon a peaceful neighbor, you will never hear Peace! when a mutant Islamist saws the head off a Daniel Pearl.
These filthy lying creatures of the darkness don't desire peace: they desire the defeat of bourgeoise western civilization, for a myriad of reasons, mostly cowardice and the economic advantage of simply being able to be a childish whiner in a society that respects and rewards the hard work and, yes, puritan ethic they are too somnambulent and lazy to aspire to. The current virulent anti-Semitism gushing through the bloodstream of the liberal establishment like a raging Marburg virus is nothing more or less than it has always been: the symptom of the craven cowardice and indolence of the pampered elite. Far easier to collaborate with the ululating Islamist decapitators than to stand tall and defend the Jews against those who brazenly boast of annihilating them. It truly takes a most rancid soul to sit in one's comfort zone and proclaim the Israelis are Nazis and SS troopers and genocidal murderers. To have descended to that level of gibberish is to have proclaimed oneself to all sane peoples that you are an insipid, unserious, dilettantish piece of human garbage, incapable of the simplest differentiation between nobility and gross savagery. I for one refuse to believe these Leftists actually believe this filth they purvey: no one in their right mind could do so. It simply must be the manifestation of the aforementioned cowardice, and the adolescent giggling of the shock-value childish.
How and when does the Leftist lie? Constantly, and insatiably. In the foolish puffery of global warming. In the ridiculous and shrill evisceration of abstinence and morality training. In the lack of acknowledgement of the existential threat of Persian madmen. In the see-no-evil absolution of terror against Israel. In the rejection of traditional education in the primary and secondary system. In the corruption of the university system, where Socrates has been displaced by Stalin, and healthy debate is traduced and punished if it does not conform to the current orthodoxies. In the lying denunciation of concern over illegal immigration as racist outrage over all immigration. In the insane hatred of a viable missile defense system (what person other than a raving lunatic could abhor simple self-protection as if it was a premeditated first strike?). In the castigation of our current economic woes as the result of unbridled capitalism when it is in fact the result of gross regulation by Congress via unsound business practices greased by criminal payoffs to the Democratic overseers in sordid receipt of said payoffs?
The sad truth is the Leftist cohort, proudly represented by the Democratic Party, has engaged in a decades-long lie of being for the "little guy", the "forgotten man", when in fact they are power-mad usurpers of freedom, whose only interest in the little guy is how much of his hard-earned money they can abscond with, and to what nefarious disproven social experiment they can apply it.
I haven't had a decent debate with a Leftist in two decades. For there is no reasoning with them. They hew to the construct of the high chair tantrum, wherein fact and logic are bullying tactics, and their capacity as a factotum of evil outcomes is likewise a mere construct, an inconvenient truth. Which is fine with me. I'm beyond debate.
In fact, when it comes to these cretins, I'm beyond anything resembling human emotion.
I took the liberty of retagging my old Fisty in order to have a suitable Hewitt Award logo to feed my simultaneous moods of grievance and fanfaronade. Of course, if anyone with better skills than me feels inspired to create something better please have at it. I would consider it an honor. Otherwise, I'm obviously lazy enough to get by with a minimum of travail.
In other news, my children's book is progressing handsomely. The working title is Joshua and Gracie Find Daddy's Handgun. It is the first in my series of Admonishment Literature for tykes, for which I sense an extraordinary demand. I hate to give away too much too early, though, n'est-ce pas? Perhaps a more enigmatic title would be appropriate. Like Lilies.