Posted on 07/05/2011 4:38:53 PM PDT by Charles Henrickson
The Independence Day holiday would not be complete without hearing from the Prime Minister of Great Written, William Pitt the Drunker. Wee Willie puts down his fifth long enough to do an essay on the Fourth, here in this THREAD, "I Pledge Allegiance to the Pole (some thoughts on the Fourth of July)."
So since we're still within 24 business hours of the Fourth, let us go forth into the Mind of the Magic Man, in Written-Long-But-Not-Much-Red, while the commentary of your humble guest correspondent, Charles Henrickson, is in the [brackets]:
I Pledge Allegiance to the Pole
[Pitt's real name is Pittuski.]
(some thoughts on the Fourth of July)
[Some thoughts on the Fourth of July, before the fifth of gin.]
There is a telephone pole outside my house - seven steps down the front porch, one step across the sidewalk, and there it is. . . .
[And BAM, I keep running into the darned thing at night when I'm staggering home from Bukowski's!]
that leans only slightly enough to the right to raise concern.
[Anything that leans to the right bothers Pitt.]
It does it's job tolerably well. . . .
[Unlike me, William Rivers Pitt, a self-proclaimed writer who can't tell the difference between "it's" and "its."]
Take a close look, however, and all of a sudden this simple, slightly splintered nondescript thing makes you think.
["Hey, maybe I can work a whole essay out of this old telephone pole! You know, if I pad it full of my usual empty, meaningless filler, I think I can!"]
There are at least three hundred nails sticking out of its old hide. . . .
["And so, if I can get a paragraph out of each one of those nails, why, I've got my story!"]
some of those nails look old enough to have held the Son and Savior Himself, in His well-documented agony, had this particular piece of pine been available on Golgotha.
[Pitt is a self-described "Kennedy Catholic," which means, not much of one, but a passing reference to Christ's crucifixion can make his essay seem more dramatic, since it is itself a six-hour agony.]
Once upon a time a utility worker planted that pole in that spot, another utility worker strung the wild carnival of electrical wires that are still festooned above my house, and now I get to enjoy electricity and cable television and all the nonsense that goes along with both.
[Thanks to those noble utility workers, I now enjoy unlimited hours of Cenk Uygur!]
The nails in that pole will get you thinking if you look at them long enough.
[It's like going into a trance, a gin-induced hypnotic trance. . . .]
Hundreds of them, in spirals and straight lines and T-shapes, all over and up and down the thing.
[A Spirograph in 3-D! Psychedelic!]
Buried deep, rusted to the quick, part of the essential wood now...
[Let's see, that puts me up to . . . 259 words now. . . . Yeah, I think I can do this thing!]
and each one of them once carried a message. Lost Dog. Lost Cat.
[Lost Count.]
Ride Needed.
[Writer Needed.]
Have You Seen This Girl.
[Have You Ever Seen Such Crap?]
Concert Tonight.
[Pittuski's 1812 Word Overload.]
Strike Tomorrow.
[Pitt pays tribute to those noble, oppressed, organized utility workers, whose kaleidoscope of nails and carnival of wires BUILT this country, dammit!]
Each message, once upon a time, was important enough to nail up
[Nail It to the Pitt House Pole!]
each message is remembered now only by the nails left behind. The paper wound up in the river. . . .
[The total number of words wound up in the Rivers Pitt.]
The paper wound up in the river long ago, along with whatever message that was so important at the time, but the nails are still there for the counting in the old skin of the pole.
[And the longer I can drag out these filler sentences, the closer I get to meeting my 1400 word count.]
I feel like posting something up on that pole, you know, for the Fourth.
[One of my numerous brilliant essays, you know, like this one.]
Something patriotic, straightforward and strong.
[Something pathetic, with more words, and long.]
"Eat The Rich" has been done. . . .
["Indict The Rove" has been done. . . .]
there are children next door, so "F-----g F--k The F-----g F-----s" probably won't do.
[Take away the "F" word, and your DUmmie is rendered mute.]
But the old, hoary history of that pole, all those nails and all those old, lost messages, seem to sing out for another post, another message, a simple shout nailed to the wood, nailed up and out there for all to see, like a blogger speaking his piece before anyone was stupid enough to come up with things like blogging in the first place.
[Here's an idea, Will: "STOP RUN-ON SENTENCES!"}
What should I put up there next to all those old nails? What, indeed?
[Indeed, what should I put up? Or, to put it another way, What up should I put? . . . (464 . . .)]
I remember everything we aren't supposed to remember anymore.
[I, William Rivers Pitt, the Magical Memory Man.]
Things like "Free Trade" isn't free at all, that the "Free Market" is just another way to screw me and you out of a lifetime of labor and saving - might as well scrape the sweat off my brow and drink it right in my face - but be sure to vote for the Republican when you hit the voting booth, because we are all going to be rich like him someday.
[Pitt does indeed drink the sweat off his brow. Hey, it's a good 9% alcohol!]
I look at that old pole outside my home, at the lines of communication ranging from it to my house to the next house to the next pole, and beyond.
[Going on to the house beyond the next pole, to which the house next to it pledges allegiance and which has a lot of nails in it, which used to hold a lot of messages, the paper gone now, in the river, but all of which were union, progressive, noble messages . . . "Lost Cat." . . . "Strike Tomorrow." . . .]
A marvel of modernity.
[A plethora of prolixity.]
I can hear the low thrum of activity along those black, low-hanging wires, and I wonder...
[Is that another DUmmie FUnnies about me, William Rivers Pitt?]
and I wonder...who else is listening? I have to ask, because, well, yeah. It isn't right, listening in on private conversations, but you see, we do that now.
[Pitt thinks he's being bugged. He's that important.]
I remember America, and it was not always this way.
[I, Wee Willie Pitt, will be 40 in November. I am a wise elder now. Listen to me. I remember things.]
I count on my fingers all the ways it is different now. . . .
[I count on my fingers all my words, 690 now. . . .]
And the spooky thing is all the people walking around who don't seem to see the difference like I see it.
[Why can't they all be like ME, the Wise One, the One Who Remembers Things? Why is it up to ME, William Rivers Pitt, to do all this for everyone?]
I think about all those old nails in the wood of that pole. What messages did they carry? Were they important?
[Surely they were not as important as my essays! But they were noble, and they were Of The People.]
Rust may never sleep. . . .
[But my readers do.]
The nails lie mute in the wood, slowly mouldering in time, their purpose long spent, and whatever word they were meant to carry is in the wind now. Along with so much else.
[Along with my 811 words, which haven't said much yet.]
So much else.
[814.]
Maybe I'm just a bad person. A bad American.
[A bad writer.]
A bummer.
[A bouncer. A piper. A pundit. A pawn and a king. . . .]
After all, it is a great country if you're rich, or white, or employed. . . .
[Well, Pitt, you trust-fund kid you, cheer up, you've got two out of three!]
God help you if you're gay and in love. . . .
[Gaia help the gayah playah!]
Never mind eight years of idiot rule by an idiot "president" empowered by an idiot "mainstream" news media.
[Uh, Will, Barry's only been in there *two-and-a-half* years. . . .]
now that the bill for Mr. Bush's bullsh*t has come due. . . .
[Bush's bushit.]
I remember America, and it was not always like this.
[Now it's getting harder and harder to blame everything on Bush.]
Pretty soon now, the fireworks are going to go off . . .
[. . . when I reach my required word count.]
the Souza march will play. . . .
["Bores and Types Forever."]
Want to know who really celebrates the Fourth of July?
[The people who make it to the end of your essay?]
I'm sure it must be nice to sleep so well.
[Pitt hasn't slept since April of '05. He's been busy remembering things. Like Andyscam. Like Fitzmas. Like how he thought he could get a job as a politico or a pundit, instead of being a lousy bouncer at Bukowski's. . . .]
I remember America.
[I remember I still need more words.]
Once upon a time, before a corporate-owned tsunami washed away everything that matters, there was this idea. . . . it was an idea that became America. . . . a self-improving democracy. Slaves? Fixed. Women can't vote? Fixed. Separate but equal? Fixed. Reproductive Choice? Fixed.
[Unwanted Babies? Killed. Yes, that was the idea.]
Messy? Bet on it. Much left to be done? Damn straight. A long, grueling struggle? Indeed.
[Kind of like making it through this tedious screed? Oh yes.]
Light at the end of the tunnel. . . ?
[Let's see . . . 1,314 words. . . . . Yep!]
Yeah.
[1,315. . . .]
Oh yeah.
[Almost there!]
I remember.
[Between those little blackouts I have from time to time. . . .]
I'm going to nail something up on that old phone pole outside.
["LOOK OUT, WILL. DO NOT BUMP INTO THIS POLE. YOUR HOUSE IS JUST ONE STEP OVER AND SEVEN STEPS UP. BE CAREFUL."]
How's this grab you? "I Remember America" What the hell, right? Maybe someone else does, too.
[1,397 words! Close enough! Hallelujah! Another one in the books! Now for a DRINK!]
[But first, a couple closing comments from the Pied Piper's surviving readers . . .]
Amazing Will.
[Amazing Will, the tale he told,
Like sh*t piled high and deep.
I once was young, but now am old;
Awake, but now I sleep . . .]
I have a fantastic Idea on where to put that pole!
[Now, now, ben, it really won't fit!]
This made me cry. . . . It's sick what has happened here. . . . All of it is sick, disgusting.
[Come on, it wasn't THAT bad, was it? I mean, you made it to the end!]
Snooze....Using the 4th to point out how bad this country is - cliche. . . . BORED with it. Had a GREAT weekend with no pissers. Sue me!
[NAIL THE TROLL TO THE POLE!]
One step away from fetal alcohol syndrome... wait this author is 39 years old?? I thought maybe he was ALMOST born from the maturity level.
Ugh! I struggle to get through his prose just for your bon mots. Does he actually get paid to submit such drivel to Truthout and other such nonsense sites or is Bukowski’s his only source of income? Well, other than his trust fund. Does he have health insurance through his suffering wife?
[Come on, it wasn't THAT bad, was it? I mean, you made it to the end!]
It almost made me cry too, but because these DUmmies cannot be living in reality.
And here I thought it was going to be Pitt's "coming out of the closet" post.
It sounds like a teenager that had to dream up an essay for school and was high on drugs.
Shows up on my calendar at least once a month.
An Excursion into a Beerglass.
I still remember the day very clearly, which is remarkable for me. I could no longer resist the magnetic force of self-destruction, and propelled my soulless carcass toward my favorite taproom just as morning rush hour in the city was abating.
As my lonely feet trod the pavement of my Boston neighborhood, I reflected upon my own celebrity. This did not take long, as I am a fairly minor player in the scope of things. Still, I had a flock to guide, to cast pearls amongst, to chide drunkenly when they ignored my teachings. It is not a coincidence that I live where I live. In the fight against a new tyrant, a new King George, the need for a Patrick Henry-Paine-Betsy-Ross-Otis-Hancock is more critical than ever.
As this mental masturbation bathed and nourished my id, my friend Jimmy happened to walk by. Salt-of-the-Earth, blue collar, disabled, courageous. That’s Jimmy. I was glad to bring some sunshine into his ordinarily milquetoast, non-revolutionary existence.
“Headed out for a beer?” Jimmy snickered.
“Heh….how did you know?” I responded teasingly.
“Let me join you.”
We finally made our way to my favorite establishment, the Herman Hesse Taphouse. I made it a point a long time ago to eschew any so-called “bar” that didn’t devote some sacred energy towards attracting literati such as myself. I took my normal, well-worn stool and nodded to the bartender. He placed my sweet medication before me.
“Drink up, Shakespeare,” the bartender scoffed, his eyes rolling. He’s always so funny like that.
I took a sip to cease the tremens, and then directed my attention towards the television. His Divine Excellency George W. Bush was shown speaking about some subject that I probably know more about than he does.
The ascendancy of this new diabolical empire, the dark heart of which unceasingly pumps the cold plasma of neoconservative fascist corporatism, has already peaked. The American people have heard the reveille of true patriots, such as truthout.org, and their stirrings have agitated the rotten foundations built by our serfmasters of filthy lucre, cast from the dust and shards of the dreams stamped out by the gold-plated jackboots of a fanatical minority.
But what of the irreparable damage that has been caused in the mere six-and-a-half years since the greatest deception ever wrought upon the Republic? What about the example cast in the tears of thousands of orphan children taken by the hubris of our appointed leaders.
A tear jettisoned itself into my beer, much like the great suicidal plunge the American dream has taken for so many.
“Room for one more?” a voice behind me melodically inquired.
It was Cindy Sheehan.
“Always for a friend,” I responded.
And we cried together.
You know...I've been thinking something along the same lines. It's funny how these DUmmies remember some bye-gone America...and identify themselves with the founding fathers.
How absoletely delusional. I really hope some are lurking on the DUmmie Funny thread right now...because I have a message for you:
Our Founding Fathers and Americans gone bye had absolutely NOTHING in common with you. Imagine this if you will, DUmmy: You all meet in a Tavern. You...the DUmmy...and the Founding Fathers...and some other Great Americans down throughout our History. You would have talked about "FREEDOM!" and they would have talked about "FREEDOM!" And they might have raised a pint of Ale to you. Then you might have said 'YEs! Freedom! A country where a Man and another MAN can express their love for each other!"
And Franklin's pint of Ale would have come crashing to the ground...he would have looked at Madison...and Madison would have glanced at the group from 1930...and they in turn would have looked at that rag tag bunch from the 1860's...as they collectively lost their lunch.
And then DUmmy...they would have said..."NO...FReedom from the GOVERNMENT'S RULE over our LIVES! BUT not from GOD's rule over our lives!"
Then you would have said..."NO wait...you said Freedom from religion...that's in the constitution. It's the 1st amendment. Don't you agree we can't have praying and bibles and stuff in public? Isn't that what you all fought for?
Then Washington stands and says "No you dolt....it's freedom OF religion...not FROM it...as he draws his side arm. With that...William Rivers Pitt Screams "HEY!!! You can't have that in here...you're a private citizen! You wrote it in the constitution that only the state militia's could have weapons...NOT citizens!!!
And with that...EVERY signer of the Declaration of Independance and the Constitution...and the rest of the Party of Historic Americans...from the War of 1812...The Civil War...and on down to the 1950's looked at each other...then let out a laugh so hard that beer flew out their noses.
As the Dummies were tossed out the bar...they looked at each other and said "BUT...But...But....I coulda swore that we were just like them!?!?"
And you know what...I really think they believe it too.
Kewl, I've never seen a white telephone pole before.
If he gets this worked up over nails in a pole, wonder how he will react to cigarette filters on the sidewalk?
It’s interesting about leftist/atheists. Everyone has to worship someone, and leftist/atheists often are their own god. Pitts obviously is! The worst ones want others to join their cults, though (worshipping Them).
HAHAHA! That is GREAT!
What a twitty drama queen.
Al those words and he says absolutely nothing. What a windbag.
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