Transcript from the new 'ALL LEFT ALL THE TIME NETWORK'

DON'T ASK ME HOW I GOT THIS SCRIPT, BUT IT IS A GENUINE TRANSCRIPT FROM THE ALL-LEFT-ALL-THE-TIME RADIO NETWORK...

[The plucked notes of a banjo are heard and the unmistakable crooning of a deep-south, rural African-American man are heard singing a traditional ballad…]

HOST: "It's as hot and steamy as a Mississippi crawdad boil. The heavy insect hum is as thick and constant as the color of night in this remote corner of the bayou. From the porch of a floating trailer, 127 year old Hound-dog Harold sings back into the night the strains of a heart that has never known freedom since the Clinton era."

[The Balladeer's voice recedes and the voice of the Host comes up. The staccato notes of the banjo mimic the cadence of the speaker's voice as though they were scripted]

HOST: "It would seem reasonable to most Americans caught up in the hectic rhythms of their daily lives to pay little or no attention to the folk wisdom of Americans 2,000 miles away from anything remotely resembling civilization. But the deep spiritual power of these aged voices will not be silenced and, tonight, they will be heard."

[The over-voice fades and the balladeer comes up as he finishes a riff. He pauses, as though giving credence to what the Host is saying and says:]

[The thrum of the insects is now brought up and the faint sounds of hip-hop can be detected as contrapuntal notes. A fade to NYC traffic noise takes the listener from the Mississippi bayou to 5th avenue at five o'clock in the evening. The bustle of pedestrians can be heard over the breathless reporting of Host's narrative.]

HOST: "This is New York City. The 'Big Apple.' The city where nothing ever sleeps. Whatever you want to call it, this is the main vein of American hopes and dreams.

Despite what folk wisdom might say, whatever is spoken from the pulpits in the Heartland's churches and in the corner booth of the truck-stop cafes tomorrow is written and performed in clubs and studios here, tonight. And tonight, we're going to hear voices from the forgotten, REAL America…"

HOST: "We're here in the club district of New York to listen to the newest sensation that has riveted critic and club-goers alike. The fresh sound of America's grimy backside. In the club we're about to enter, all of the most important people in America have gathered together tonight to listen to authentic backwater music and nosh on catfish canapés."

[The clink of glasses and a bartender is heard saying: "Here's your white wine spritzer, Sir."]

HOST: "The contrast between the primal sounds we'll hear to night and the cosmopolitan noise of traffic outside is a gulf between two worlds. Not unlike the rift between what some see as the run-away policies of the navel-gazing Bush administration and the harsh realities of the workin' for a livin' struggle that everyone outside of New York must endure.

The 'elder-wisdom' of these men, these American balladeers, is unmistakably chiseled in their wrinkled brows, their stubbled chins, their whisky-rough voices, their prison tattoos, their toothless mouths and their cigarette smoke wreathed faces. A new generation of patriots will be born tonight as the underbelly of America speaks out against oppression…

BALLADEER: "Ya' know I love to lick yo' gravy, Baby! Woan' ju set still and ride? Well, I love ta lick yo' gravy, Baby…"

HOST: "The love of these people for their heritage is strong. Pulsing as clear and bright as the sunrise at dawn over the Delta, these men of the earth are unmistakable in their calm, patient patriotism. Waiting for a new day of freedom to dawn, their humble songs harken to better times ahead…"

HOST: Its clear that America's salt-of-the-earth folks have been hardest hit by the Bush economic policies. In the face of such woe and the power of common wisdom, what defense can be mounted from Washington's high towers for the arrogant disregard of the oil-fattened frat-boy as he surveys his kingdom from Pennsylvania Avenue?

BALLADEER: "Gimme a drank o' thet wine. I said, gimme a drank o' thet wine. It sho' been a long time since I ever done poontang that fine…"

HOST: "Outside the club, the night is dark. Down on the bayou where these men have journeyed from, it is dark as well. In fact, all across America, it's just plain dark as hell. The stinking, choking, stygian blackness of Republicanism is like being buried alive! I…can't…stand it! I've, I've, I've…got…to…to get…away! F-Fr-ance…yes! Mon Cheri…arghhhh!

In my house, we've thrown out the bottle of Ipecac for the kids. Instead, we keep a radio tuned to NPR just in case we find the need to hurl.

The BALLADEER must be Bill Clinton, America's first black president. Or Carville. We're supposed to garner wisdom from that drooling, pornographic slug? Who are they kidding?

Good Lord, Man! You're waist deep in the archives if you found this thread! I thought this was deader than Algore's Presidential chances. Anyway, I'm impressed that you found this mouldering script. Thanks!

Yes, the Left is, indeed, broadcasting some very odd programing in very weird ways.

Like the guy that whupped Dan Rather, I keep asking: "What is the frequency, Kenneth?" Unlike Mr. Rather's attacker, however, I doubt I'll ever get the chance to kick Dan's (or any other Leftist broadcaster) silly ass.

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