While going on a doggy stroll in Limbo, Death's mordacious pet dog Cerberus spotted the netherworld ferryman Charon sitting in his boat at the wharf by the Acheron river. Today Charon looked more tuckered out than usual as he smoked a Marlboro cigarette. "Well, how's it going today, Charon?" Cerberus asked. "Meh," said Charon after taking a drag on his smoke, "I had a busy day. What a crowd." Cerberus, knowing Charon well and looking past his phony reticence, sensed that he wanted to tell a story. Charon can be very talkative when he feels like it. "Well, what happened? Tell me," said Cerberus as he sat on his haunches, listening as he wagged his tail. Tossing the butt away into the slimy Acheron river, Charon leaned on his oar and began talking: "Rock stars! What can you do about them? They get some riches and fame and start thinking they'll live forever while pumping drugs and likker into themselves. They sure make for easy pickings. So Death sends them down to me, whole crews of them, and they get here thinking they've reached some kind of Rock'n'Roll heaven. They ask me 'where's the beer?' and other stupid questions. I tell them there ain't any beer in Limbo, and that they've got all the wrong ideas. Next, they decide they want to start a band and they go wandering off. So they get some instruments together and start making a racket trying to play them, even though their fingers have got nothing on them but some falling-off-the-bone moldering flesh. They call that music? Posh. Even the cacodemons sound better. So I am forced to get out of my ferry and chase them all around the shores of Acheron trying to corral them and get them into my boat." Cerberus found this all very amusing and said with a sly smile, "Well, for sure Limbo is no 'stairway to heaven.' Did any of them try singing something like 'you ain't nothing but a hound dog'? That's a favorite of mine." Charon lit up another Marlboro and answered, "I don't know. I don't pay no attention. Do I look like I can afford an iPod?"
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Danse Macabre VIII
While going on a doggy stroll in Limbo, Death's mordacious pet dog Cerberus spotted the netherworld ferryman Charon sitting in his boat at the wharf by the Acheron river. Today Charon looked more tuckered out than usual as he smoked a Marlboro cigarette. "Well, how's it going today, Charon?" Cerberus asked. "Meh," said Charon after taking a drag on his smoke, "I had a busy day. What a crowd." Cerberus, knowing Charon well and looking past his phony reticence, sensed that he wanted to tell a story. Charon can be very talkative when he feels like it. "Well, what happened? Tell me," said Cerberus as he sat on his haunches, listening as he wagged his tail. Tossing the butt away into the slimy Acheron river, Charon leaned on his oar and began talking: "Rock stars! What can you do about them? They get some riches and fame and start thinking they'll live forever while pumping drugs and likker into themselves. They sure make for easy pickings. So Death sends them down to me, whole crews of them, and they get here thinking they've reached some kind of Rock'n'Roll heaven. They ask me 'where's the beer?' and other stupid questions. I tell them there ain't any beer in Limbo, and that they've got all the wrong ideas. Next, they decide they want to start a band and they go wandering off. So they get some instruments together and start making a racket trying to play them, even though their fingers have got nothing on them but some falling-off-the-bone moldering flesh. They call that music? Posh. Even the cacodemons sound better. So I am forced to get out of my ferry and chase them all around the shores of Acheron trying to corral them and get them into my boat." Cerberus found this all very amusing and said with a sly smile, "Well, for sure Limbo is no 'stairway to heaven.' Did any of them try singing something like 'you ain't nothing but a hound dog'? That's a favorite of mine." Charon lit up another Marlboro and answered, "I don't know. I don't pay no attention. Do I look like I can afford an iPod?"
Danse Macabre VII
"Well, how did your secret meeting at the White House go with the President and the Secretary of the Treasury?" asked Death's mordacious pet dog Cerberus. Unlike most dogs, Cerberus can talk, although the story that he has three heads remains a myth. "Oh, the meeting. Ah, yes," answered Death with a bit of teasing coyness, "We had many sensitive matters to discuss, which is the reason why they had to sneak me through the back door of the White House so the Press corps wouldn't get wind of me being there." Cerberus noted to himself that, given his stench, Death must have been down wind of everybody. "So tell me, what did they want?" Cerberus asked. Death sat back and explained: "The Treasury Secretary began first by telling me that the government had a 'certain demographic problem' they needed taken care of. It seems the horde of Baby Boomers are reaching retirement age and soon they will start demanding payment on their Social Security. You know, the retirement fund the Boomers thought they had been paying into for all these years. Then the President spoke and added, with a very glum expression on his face, 'To be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Death, the United States government is flat broke. The Chicoms refuse to lend us another dime. Just paying the interests on the national debt is consuming nearly all our tax revenues, and we've already raised taxes to the breaking point. There's no way in Hell we can pay the Boomers their pensions.' Well, my good Cerberus, it turned out that somebody in the White House saw my being interviewed on the Oprah Winfrey show the other day and suggested to the Treasury Secretary that it might be worth a shot to ask for my help in dealing with this fiscal crisis." Cerberus was surprised that the interview gig had worked for the good, and asked, "So what did they want from you?" Death chuckled and said, "Oh, nothing too complicated. They simply wanted me to speed things up a bit on the Boomers, although the actual words they used were more like 'take them out and quick'." Cerberus put on a snarky, doggy smirk and said, "Oh. It's not like anybody will miss them, the Boomers, the greediest, rottenest generation of Americans ever to walk above soil. I guess you're going to get busy on the job, right?" Death laughed and said, "It'll be merry. As I was leaving the White House, they asked me to be very discreet about our meeting, but they also said they would cooperate as much as they dare. They mentioned something about their plans for 'senior rest and relaxation centers,' and an upcoming 'super-flu' in the works." Cerberus finished the conversation by saying "I'm your snarly myrmidon. I'll be sure to keep the secret buried, wrapped in graveclothes with duct tape on the mouth. You betcha."
Danse Macabre VI
Most of the world knew this academcian for the enormous number of books he had written, which crowded the bookshelves at Borders, Barnes & Nobel, and even Wal-Mart. Their titles all varied, but the subtitles could just as well have all been the same: something along the lines of "everybody else has misinterpreted what so-and-so said, but I, the guy with the enormous brain and a dozen PhDs, have finally arrived to tell you what he really meant; and with me all wisdom will die." One day, while he was in the middle of writing his next book, already given advance advertising in the Oprah, Parabola, and Christian Century magazines, Death showed up to prove him wrong, at least about all wisdom dying with him. Up until that time this scholar only thought of Death as an metaphor to be deconstructed, a philosophic conundrum, or a launching pad for another wordy elucidation of writings of Albert Camus or the ancient gnostics; and it never occured to him that he would actually meet up with Death himself one day. At first, Death had a little trouble getting this scholar's attention since he was so absorbed, expending his massive brain-power while contemplating some finer points of evolutionary cosmology. "Er, excuse me…excuse me please," said Death, "but I have something important we need to discuss—your particular soul, for example."
Danse Macabre V
Death was once invited to appear on the Oprah Winfrey show for an televised interview in front of a live audience. He asked his mordacious dog Cerberus if he thought this might be a fun thing to do. "Well, you're in the news all the time, so you're a little over-exposed. But what the heck if you're on her show?" was Cerberus's snappy answer. During the interview, Oprah asked Death what people give him the most amount of trouble. "It is interesting that you ask, but I would have thought you could have guessed, and quite easily," said Death with an icy sauveness that sent a chill in the room. Oprah responded that she really couldn't imagine who. Death answered, "Ah. I tell you. The absolute worst bunch are the lawyers." At this the audience laughed, nervously. Death continued, "The lawyers always try to weasel their way out of things. They just cannot imagine that there are some laws under the First Heaven that can't be minipulated by clever arguments or pettifoggery. So they always give me the hardest time. And when that doesn't work, they next try to pay me off with money. They figure that by offering to 'settle' for X amount of dollars then anything must be possible. And even then, they'll try to haggle. I remembered one lawyer from the ACLU who even threatened to sue me for damages. I laughed and told him 'Oh, I'm scared.' And of course the people with the money can afford to hire lawyers. Has anyone noticed that the poor can't retain lawyers? Doesn't that tell you something?" Later, Oprah opened up things for questions from the studio audience. Someone asked, "Do you know any good lawyer jokes?" Death answered, "What do you call a thousand lawyers chained together at the bottom of the ocean?"
Danse Macabre IV
The film producer had been on a roll for quite a few years, and had climbed to the pinnacle of success, fame, and money. His peers in the industry regarded his "documentary films" as mordant and hard hitting, and doubly worthy of the highly prestigious "Golden Beer Can Award." Indeed, by the time the producer received this coveted award, his oeuvre ranged over a wide territory. But more than anything, what launched his career was his tendentious exposés about various dead personalities. And indeed, the dead are easy targets to exploit, because they are, well, dead. And being without breath, they are therefore not able to speak up and contradict anything said about themselves. Furthermore, this film producer had no problems about smearing the living, since he employed a gang of industrious lawyers to deal with any complaints coming from that direction. And having learnt early on that clever cutting room editing allows you to get away with nearly anything, his career branched out into highly applauded documentary films uncovering the putative evils of capitalism, health insurers, McDonald's Big Macs, Toyota automobiles, Disneyland, General Booth's Salvation Army, and nearly everything else under the sun. That night after the award ceremony, Death unfortunately showed up and was very insistent that he, the film producer, had to give up the Golden Beer Can and leave it behind. Death said that since the producer owed his career to films about dead people, it was only reasonable that he, Death, should get the Golden Beer Can, and the producer as well. Death can be very persuasive. By the way, Death's mordacious pet dog Cerberus is seen here exiting the picture.
Danse Macabre III
This famous televangelist, a big favorite who often appeared on TBN, preached "prosperity," which amounted to saying that "if you tithe to me your money, then your bank accounts will be blessed tenfold and more." He cheerfully accepted credit cards as well, but whether or not anyone else's bank account got blessed remains a matter of debate. One thing is certain however, that this preacher's bank accounts had a marvelous breakthrough and grew well beyond tenfold to more like astronomical levels. Besides being famous for his multi-million dollar beach front home, his silken tailored and somewhat oddball clothing, his various front corporations which were run using inscrutable accounting methods, and for getting around in his private Gulfstream jet, this preacher also promoted his great "anointing" by staging grand theatric productions called "miracle services" with himself as the primary star. But the real miracle in all this was how many years he had managed to keep the game going, enriching himself from the contributions of others. On the other hand, nobody can fool Death, who was keeping a careful watch on the countdown, waiting for the time when he could say "this is your day" and lay his cold, unfeeling hands on him, gratis. For Death doesn't accept cash contributions or credit cards, but instead dispenses his services free of charge, whether you want them or not.
Danse Macabre II
Late one evening, the congressman got together for a friendly game of canasta with some of his munificent lobbyist friends, who work for certain extremely large banks and investment firms, during which the lobbyists wanted to clarify exactly how they wanted the new regulatory laws written. After all, these regulations had to be constructed just right in order to ensure that their plans for "socializing the risks but privatizing the profits" could proceed uninhibited. For his part in this, the congressman, who held a powerful chairmanship in a committee concerned with these technical banking matters, would reap many great benefits in regards to funding his soon upcoming re-election campaign, not to mention getting an all-expense paid Danse Macabre I
He was one of the chief mucketymucks at Goldman Sachs. And indeed the complex credit default swaps he had engineered, which covered up the extent of the insolvency of the Greek government, stand out as remarkable achievements of financial chicanery that would have made the great J.P. Morgan blush. For this, the company, often derided by various wags as "the great vampire squid," awarded him with luxurious bonuses. But needing a much needed and well-deserved break from his endeavors, a little rest and recuperation, he took an extended vacation at his "little getaway," a restored castle once lived-in by a Renaissance princeling in the Piedmont region of sunny Italy. But this was only logical considering the equal, invaluable, and above all discreet services he had often rendered for the Italian government. In any case, he had decided it was time to really live it up like a "king," and indeed in today's world he could be considered a "king," for he had in his retinue various politicians and bureaucrats who were always eager to do his bidding, as well as being solicitious of the expertise and various favors he could confer. But alas, Death, being terribly indifferent to all of his accomplishments, showed up unexpectedly at a banquet one day to pour him a cup which he couldn't refuse to drink.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Litmus Test
Back in the summer of 2010, Angelo M. Codevilla wrote the essay that shook the country. Appearing in the American Spectator, he entitled it "America's Ruling Class and The Perils of Revolution." Codevilla has just recently come out with an expanded book version where he elaborates even further on the points made in his essay. I plan on getting and reading the book.
Codevilla with a big mallet tapped the bell of what everyone out here in Flyover Country has been subconsciously thinking but hadn't quite put into words. Codevilla spelt it out and hammered it hard. One day while at lunch together, I was telling my wife's brother-in-law Sam about Codevilla's essay, and to condense it down for him, to put it as briefly as possible, I said, "he shows that our country does have a Ruling Class, and that they hate all of us." Sam understood instantly what I meant. He immediately knew what I was talking about. Things precipitated as if a supercooled liquid suddenly crystalized.
However, I would like to touch a small ancillary matter that Codevilla didn't cover, at least not too explicitly in his original essay. My question is: What would be the ultimate litmus test for who gets to be a member of the Ruling Class in this country? Such a proposed test would have to be sure-fire and fool proof. If you fail the test, you absolutely and positively won't make into the Upper Crust of Those Who Rule over us plebes, proles, yahoos, nekkies, and bitter clingers. The test must define the one mandatory, necessary¹ condition which if you lack you never will make it into the priviledged club.
It occurred to me that there really is such a litmus test. And it is quite simple and an infallible determinator: To make the grade you must first kiss Charles Darwin's butt and embrace with your whole heart his macro-evolutionary Upward Climb from the Primordal Slime thesis. If you refuse, so sorry Gonzo, but you will get drummed out of the program. Woe to you if you do not worship at the Altar of Darwin. This is the one ideological sine qua non you can't get around. Without it, the prestigious universities will never let you in to where you can rub shoulders with those born to rule, where you can make the connections you'll need, conferring favors and getting favors in return as you climb the ladder to position. For it's the one test which if you fail you can't even be allowed on the ladder to begin with.²
The Patricians who rule over us every so often like to cluck about those Gallop opinion polls that show a substantial percentage of those bitter clingers still clinging to the notion of a Creator who created man in his own image, the ones who (gasp) actually believe what's written in those bibles they're clinging onto. They sneered when Ben Stein even dared to make a documentary that meekly suggested that something as milquetoast as "intelligent design" might be an issue that touches on free speech and freedom of thought at the least. But our enlightened Betters will have no truck with such treason. Anybody remotely suggesting such a thing must be shot on sight, even if virtually (for now). I daresay that our Elites view themselves as the highest and most evolved species of that Upward Climb—they listen to radio programs running on NPR telling them how they have much to thank Darwin for, everything from opposable thumbs to language to a "bonobo lifestyle." For them, the rest of America is viewed as barely beyond the level of benighted, toothless hillbillies with lizard brains who communicate using a five word vocabulary, or incoherent grunts, and who are definitely to be ruled over, if only for their own good and to keep them under control. At all costs, they must be kept away from the levers of serious power although they'll be humored now and then with the illusion of democracy and elections—panem et circenses and cable TV. And the grunts can even be useful as cannon fodder for our perpetual wars and other suchlike projects overseas.
Anyhow, I think I have hit upon what the litmus test must be. I haven't seen anyone else answer this question quite this way.
¹ Notice this doesn't mean a sufficient condition.
² Somebody might object that George W. Bush proves the opposite. My response is: (1) there's no telling what he actually believes or even if he's given it a moment's thought, and political people do have a talent for putting up concocted personas for political reasons or for garnering votes; and (2) Dubya might be more an example of a "useful idiot," to borrow a phrase sometimes attributed to Lenin describing a person found to be useful and compliant but who is not really in charge. Remember, the Ruling Class isn't monolithic, and it's easy to imagine that one segment found him to be very useful for their purposes. Just ask Dick Cheney or Donald Rumsfeld or Hank Paulson.
Codevilla with a big mallet tapped the bell of what everyone out here in Flyover Country has been subconsciously thinking but hadn't quite put into words. Codevilla spelt it out and hammered it hard. One day while at lunch together, I was telling my wife's brother-in-law Sam about Codevilla's essay, and to condense it down for him, to put it as briefly as possible, I said, "he shows that our country does have a Ruling Class, and that they hate all of us." Sam understood instantly what I meant. He immediately knew what I was talking about. Things precipitated as if a supercooled liquid suddenly crystalized.
However, I would like to touch a small ancillary matter that Codevilla didn't cover, at least not too explicitly in his original essay. My question is: What would be the ultimate litmus test for who gets to be a member of the Ruling Class in this country? Such a proposed test would have to be sure-fire and fool proof. If you fail the test, you absolutely and positively won't make into the Upper Crust of Those Who Rule over us plebes, proles, yahoos, nekkies, and bitter clingers. The test must define the one mandatory, necessary¹ condition which if you lack you never will make it into the priviledged club.
It occurred to me that there really is such a litmus test. And it is quite simple and an infallible determinator: To make the grade you must first kiss Charles Darwin's butt and embrace with your whole heart his macro-evolutionary Upward Climb from the Primordal Slime thesis. If you refuse, so sorry Gonzo, but you will get drummed out of the program. Woe to you if you do not worship at the Altar of Darwin. This is the one ideological sine qua non you can't get around. Without it, the prestigious universities will never let you in to where you can rub shoulders with those born to rule, where you can make the connections you'll need, conferring favors and getting favors in return as you climb the ladder to position. For it's the one test which if you fail you can't even be allowed on the ladder to begin with.²
The Patricians who rule over us every so often like to cluck about those Gallop opinion polls that show a substantial percentage of those bitter clingers still clinging to the notion of a Creator who created man in his own image, the ones who (gasp) actually believe what's written in those bibles they're clinging onto. They sneered when Ben Stein even dared to make a documentary that meekly suggested that something as milquetoast as "intelligent design" might be an issue that touches on free speech and freedom of thought at the least. But our enlightened Betters will have no truck with such treason. Anybody remotely suggesting such a thing must be shot on sight, even if virtually (for now). I daresay that our Elites view themselves as the highest and most evolved species of that Upward Climb—they listen to radio programs running on NPR telling them how they have much to thank Darwin for, everything from opposable thumbs to language to a "bonobo lifestyle." For them, the rest of America is viewed as barely beyond the level of benighted, toothless hillbillies with lizard brains who communicate using a five word vocabulary, or incoherent grunts, and who are definitely to be ruled over, if only for their own good and to keep them under control. At all costs, they must be kept away from the levers of serious power although they'll be humored now and then with the illusion of democracy and elections—panem et circenses and cable TV. And the grunts can even be useful as cannon fodder for our perpetual wars and other suchlike projects overseas.
Anyhow, I think I have hit upon what the litmus test must be. I haven't seen anyone else answer this question quite this way.
¹ Notice this doesn't mean a sufficient condition.
² Somebody might object that George W. Bush proves the opposite. My response is: (1) there's no telling what he actually believes or even if he's given it a moment's thought, and political people do have a talent for putting up concocted personas for political reasons or for garnering votes; and (2) Dubya might be more an example of a "useful idiot," to borrow a phrase sometimes attributed to Lenin describing a person found to be useful and compliant but who is not really in charge. Remember, the Ruling Class isn't monolithic, and it's easy to imagine that one segment found him to be very useful for their purposes. Just ask Dick Cheney or Donald Rumsfeld or Hank Paulson.
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