August 27, 2009
Mary Jo Kopechne’s watery grave: requiescat in pace.
(Martha’s Libtard, MA) Speaker of the House Nates Pilosae (D-Fistula) announced today she would rally liberal support for the flagging ObamaCare bill by renaming it the Senator Kennedy Really Enjoyed Women Undressing, or SKREWU, Act. Asked if this means any substantive changes, Pilosae said: “Well, we’re planning to make the reproductive health care stuff a stand-alone bill. The mother’s, I mean. To be fair, cranial puncture and suction doesn’t necessarily meet everybody’s definition of health care for babies.”
As some in the audience shifted in their seats, Pilosae continued: “The stand-alone bill, which we’re calling the Ted Kennedy Inconvenient Duty to Rescue Act, dispenses with all that partial-birth stuff our base is so keen on. Instead, unwanted children will be allowed to be born but then plied with booze and drugs, strapped into an Oldsmobile, and driven off a bridge into a pond. Then left to swim for themselves. All taxpayer-funded, of course. We think Sen. Kennedy would be proud.”
— Sue Denham
Americans were horrified when they learned that rescue workers found [Mary Jo Kopechne’s] body in the well of the back seat with her head held up, perhaps indicating that she had been alive for some time breathing in an air pocket.
It may be that Edward Kennedy will find mercy in the other world, a good defense before the dread judgment seat of Christ, in the ancient formulation. Maybe not. It’s not for us still on this side of the veil to say. But what we can say, is that pretty young staffers, unborn children, our republican forms of government, and whiskey distilleries everywhere will sleep better tonight. Or as my tart-tongued friend Peona de Fleur said yesterday: “My mother always said to say something good about the dead. Ted Kennedy’s dead. Good.”
A bit jaggy but genuine I believe: a rare Hibernian walrus, Ebriosus cacatus, disoriented with drink and drugs, beaches itself on Martha’s Vineyard.
“From fairest creatures we desire increase, / That thereby beauty’s rose might never die.” — Shakespeare, Sonnet 1
(Durham, NC) Beeve Wedgethick, heavyweight on the academic Left (and bathroom scale), noted disciple of French leather-bar patron Michel Foolcauld, went to her eternal reward last week. Wedgethick, 69, was Newman’s Own Dressing Professor of English and Kulchural Studies at Duke. (The university is now best known as the stalag where the lacrosse team, libeled as rapists and racists by university president Brod Dickhead and 87 members of his professoriat, were railroaded in a show trial; the crooked prosecutor and lying chief witness were subsequently exposed, of course, and all charges dropped.)
According to Wikipedia, where she did most of her research, Wedgethick’s many and weighty excogitations, eagerly lapped up by the sort of dim grad student who thinks Judith Buttlore’s cool — she failed freshman logic at Yale, Ruth Marcus told me — include:
- Between Mensrooms: English Litterchur and Male Homosocial Desire in the Humanities Building Basement (1985), a learned, lucid treatise on why many young college Homo sapiens, faced with young college women who look like Wedgethick, decide it’s sapiens to be homo;
- Epissemology of the Watercloset (1990), a sensitive probing of the dark, mucky nooks and crannies of the smallest room in the house, which the sexual Other has, as second-class citizen, historically been compelled to enter through the back door (speaking of which, what pity Beeve’s books aren’t written on soft paper).
Wedgethick’s books, written in classical Asyntactic, have not been translated into English. However, it’s widely understood that they must be intellectually deep because few can squeeze meaning from the hard, tortured product Wedgethick put on paper, much as a dry well with no light looks profound though an inch deep. Happily, therefore, several of Beeve’s Nude Historicist colleagues (as in the emperor has no clothes) survive burrowed into the woodwork at Harvard and Berkeley, still living the glory days of 1979; several are proficient in Asyntactic and have volunteered to translate Wedgethick’s messy effluvia into stylish English (or their best approximation).
– Martinus Scriblerus
It seems straightforward enough: death for the ringleaders, expulsion for the rank and file.
No, mean old conservatives couldn’t make this stuff up, even if we tried: naturally Jalal Ahmed, one of the Pakistani brutes allowed by the Labour government to insult homecoming troops with impunity, is a baggage handler at an airport, and was found with pictures of airliners in his possession. But of course he and his little band of throat-slitters (note the wannabe-bad black getups they’re wearing) are still walking the streets free.
Why? When the state abdicates its most basic function — preserving the people who framed it — I fail to see there’s any duty to obey its laws, at least those that harm the interests of native Britons by protecting the dangerous Islamists who hate those native Britons — and will always hate them if they squat on British soil for a thousand years, surly taking the dole with one hand and giving Britain the finger (or rather the shoe bomb) with the other. And it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn what the Pakistanis’ passports say — a hostile alien will never be British, or any other nationality, just ’cause some cynical Labour legislator confers citizenship, the franchise, and transfer benefits on him.
Britons, defend yourselves if your government won’t! Counterprogramming in the form of the Watford parade is a heartening start, but a cancer in the body politic requires drastic excision; strengthening exercises won’t cut it. If ten thousand in Luton, and ten thousand in Bradford, and ten thousand in every major city in Britain take the matter of treasonable Islamists into your own hands, what precisely do Gordo Brown and the Labour government propose to do about it? There aren’t jails enough to hold you — and how many of your own people, who staff the police and the military anyway, will put their lives on the line for Paki jihadis plotting to kill them? Yes, I thought so.
Most of all, God bless the littlest Britons, of whom it seems there are still more than a few, like this angelic little patriot:
God save the Queen, yes — but loyal subjects of the Crown, you’d better start helping Him, right now.