"
W and the emperor's new baby"
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
It was too good to last. More than a month had passed since Mrs. Feeny's last outrage, and we trembled at the prospect of an inevitable resumption of her customary amok state.
We had ascribed her quiescence to the chastening influence of the holiday season, but since the venerable prune is constitutionally incapable of passing an apple cart without tipping it over, we had little hope it would continue.
This is not to say that there had not been sporadic incidents sprinkled throughout the relatively tranquil interregnum. There was for example her creation of something she described as being a therapeutic measure for young women stymied by the corporate glass ceiling--the so-called "Mrs. Feeny's Club for Girls," which surprised and delighted us until we learned it was a type of baseball bat.
The first dorsal fin in the placid sea of our tranquility appeared late last week when the redoubtable dowager announced that she would clone herself.
Her announcement immediately called to mind the Disney version of the "Sorcerer's Apprentice," and we were besieged by febrile visions of rapidly multiplying brooms and buckets--each bearing Mrs. Feeny's likeness.
There followed an intense--perhaps "frenzied" would be more accurate--discussion that did nothing to lessen her apparent obsession with creating an excessive amount of Feenys. But as the evening wore on we learned that things could have been far worse., since she had initially considered recreating herself in what she delicately referred to as "the natural way" (the mind screams!), but, after several experiences which we forbade her to detail, she had settled on the more feasible, and less appalling technique of cellular reiteration.
Consequently, her basement bunker is now chock-a-block with wizardly arrays of electronic equipment, and tubes and beakers filled with what may be exotic chemicals, or, for all we know, snips and snails and puppy-dog tails.
In our inquiries into the provenance of this latest mania, we learned that the would-be mama had been unwholesomely influenced by recent news accounts of a sect known as the "Raelians", a group of visionaries that together prove that overexposure to moonlight is not a good thing.
To put it in a nutshell, (ha!) the Raelians believe that humanity is the result of cloning by the "Elohim"--an ancient Hebrew term that the Raelians have expanded to describe a race of prehistoric extraterrestrial space-trotters. One is immediately suspicious, inasmuch as their account makes no mention whatsoever of the Zangorian Conquerors from Gamma Five.
The Raelian sect bobbed to the surface of world attention like a horse-apple when it announced that it had successfully engineered at least two births using sophisticated cloning techniques. News of their accomplishments was spread via "television," a fantastical device that the Raelians claim displays pictures that are, quote, "sent through the air."
To date the alleged parents of the mimeographed tykes have demonstrated a nearly Nixonian tenacity in their reluctance to provide proof of their feat. But what is particularly disturbing is the fact that such--you should excuse the expression--infantile twaddle has been elevated to the realm of the respectable through numerous journalistic interviews of responsible scientists who affect to give the matter serious consideration, instead of the correct response, which would be to horsewhip the reporters.
But perhaps we judge too harshly. Perhaps the brouhaha is only a reflection of our growing lack of national self-confidence. As may be obvious, we Americans have entered into an era of uncertainty, an age of ambiguity in which nothing is so half-witted that it will not immediately be embraced by a sizeable chunk of the public. This explains Dr. Laura.
It also demonstrates the role of faith in current times. Faith is the ability to believe in the immaterial--the more immaterial the greater the faith. Faith laughs at evidence and is only deepened by lack of proof. There is nothing so ludicrous that faith cannot make it appear wise. This explains the Bush Administration.
When wisdom vanishes, faith must take up the load. We cite, for example, the continuing failure of the U.N. inspectors to turn up even a hint of Iraqi Weapons of Mass Destruction. Faith tells us that this is proof positive that such weapons exist, else why would the Iraqis have hidden them so well?
When the President spends money that belongs to people who don't have it in order to give it to people who don't need it, our faith calls it the "Trickle-Down Theory," and we eagerly await being trickled upon.
In matters of threatened military conflict, where the President is frightened by the rabbit, while the wolf has him by the throat, our faith tells us the rabbit must be one bad dude.
When our nation's only friends are those we have bought and paid for, faith convinces us we are Gary Cooper.
Well, let no man say--although the women may do so if they like--that your W Team lacks faith. In these bizarre days, many observers are theorizing that the President must have sustained some horrendous pre-natal accident, or was dropped on his head as an infant, but we gainsay them; "piffle," we say, and furthermore, "balderdash." George W. Bush is no ordinary dumb bunny, he is our President--pure and simple. And we keep the faith that he will remain thus.
In the meantime, we're looking for a really nice gift for Mrs. Feeny's baby shower.
"
W and the emperor's new baby"
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
It was too good to last. More than a month had passed since Mrs. Feeny's last outrage, and we trembled at the prospect of an inevitable resumption of her customary amok state.
We had ascribed her quiescence to the chastening influence of the holiday season, but since the venerable prune is constitutionally incapable of passing an apple cart without tipping it over, we had little hope it would continue.
This is not to say that there had not been sporadic incidents sprinkled throughout the relatively tranquil interregnum. There was for example her creation of something she described as being a therapeutic measure for young women stymied by the corporate glass ceiling--the so-called "Mrs. Feeny's Club for Girls," which surprised and delighted us until we learned it was a type of baseball bat.
The first dorsal fin in the placid sea of our tranquility appeared late last week when the redoubtable dowager announced that she would clone herself.
Her announcement immediately called to mind the Disney version of the "Sorcerer's Apprentice," and we were besieged by febrile visions of rapidly multiplying brooms and buckets--each bearing Mrs. Feeny's likeness.
There followed an intense--perhaps "frenzied" would be more accurate--discussion that did nothing to lessen her apparent obsession with creating an excessive amount of Feenys. But as the evening wore on we learned that things could have been far worse., since she had initially considered recreating herself in what she delicately referred to as "the natural way" (the mind screams!), but, after several experiences which we forbade her to detail, she had settled on the more feasible, and less appalling technique of cellular reiteration.
Consequently, her basement bunker is now chock-a-block with wizardly arrays of electronic equipment, and tubes and beakers filled with what may be exotic chemicals, or, for all we know, snips and snails and puppy-dog tails.
In our inquiries into the provenance of this latest mania, we learned that the would-be mama had been unwholesomely influenced by recent news accounts of a sect known as the "Raelians", a group of visionaries that together prove that overexposure to moonlight is not a good thing.
To put it in a nutshell, (ha!) the Raelians believe that humanity is the result of cloning by the "Elohim"--an ancient Hebrew term that the Raelians have expanded to describe a race of prehistoric extraterrestrial space-trotters. One is immediately suspicious, inasmuch as their account makes no mention whatsoever of the Zangorian Conquerors from Gamma Five.
The Raelian sect bobbed to the surface of world attention like a horse-apple when it announced that it had successfully engineered at least two births using sophisticated cloning techniques. News of their accomplishments was spread via "television," a fantastical device that the Raelians claim displays pictures that are, quote, "sent through the air."
To date the alleged parents of the mimeographed tykes have demonstrated a nearly Nixonian tenacity in their reluctance to provide proof of their feat. But what is particularly disturbing is the fact that such--you should excuse the expression--infantile twaddle has been elevated to the realm of the respectable through numerous journalistic interviews of responsible scientists who affect to give the matter serious consideration, instead of the correct response, which would be to horsewhip the reporters.
But perhaps we judge too harshly. Perhaps the brouhaha is only a reflection of our growing lack of national self-confidence. As may be obvious, we Americans have entered into an era of uncertainty, an age of ambiguity in which nothing is so half-witted that it will not immediately be embraced by a sizeable chunk of the public. This explains Dr. Laura.
It also demonstrates the role of faith in current times. Faith is the ability to believe in the immaterial--the more immaterial the greater the faith. Faith laughs at evidence and is only deepened by lack of proof. There is nothing so ludicrous that faith cannot make it appear wise. This explains the Bush Administration.
When wisdom vanishes, faith must take up the load. We cite, for example, the continuing failure of the U.N. inspectors to turn up even a hint of Iraqi Weapons of Mass Destruction. Faith tells us that this is proof positive that such weapons exist, else why would the Iraqis have hidden them so well?
When the President spends money that belongs to people who don't have it in order to give it to people who don't need it, our faith calls it the "Trickle-Down Theory," and we eagerly await being trickled upon.
In matters of threatened military conflict, where the President is frightened by the rabbit, while the wolf has him by the throat, our faith tells us the rabbit must be one bad dude.
When our nation's only friends are those we have bought and paid for, faith convinces us we are Gary Cooper.
Well, let no man say--although the women may do so if they like--that your W Team lacks faith. In these bizarre days, many observers are theorizing that the President must have sustained some horrendous pre-natal accident, or was dropped on his head as an infant, but we gainsay them; "piffle," we say, and furthermore, "balderdash." George W. Bush is no ordinary dumb bunny, he is our President--pure and simple. And we keep the faith that he will remain thus.
In the meantime, we're looking for a really nice gift for Mrs. Feeny's baby shower.
