Columns » Bob Lancaster

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I think they ought to go ahead and name Chuck Norris president of Texas. It would give him a nice head start toward making the title official once the Texican secessionists successfully complete their task. Of course he'll have to settle temporarily for being provisional president, with no pay. Because if pay were involved, his old running buddy Huckalong would already have horned in line ahead of him, calling dibs.

I hope that when we do get around to confiscating the handguns I'll get the assignment to go out and retrieve the one concealed in Bryan Hendricks' cold puckered butt.

Add me to the majority that isn't all broken up that newspapers will soon be extinct. I think they've been pretty much dead for a generation now, and these lame acts we still call newspapers are just a reminder, as starlings are of dinosaurs.

I hope there'll be books for a while yet, though. Not that I'm that dedicated a reader. Several rooms of my house are piled high with books, and that's where I go now, having abandoned the old duct-taped Homeland Security bunker, when the color-coded terrorist-attack alert goes over into the red. A pile of books will block lethal WMD agents better than all that old visquene did, and mysterious rays of the kind that President Reagan buzzed  at Warren Carpenter 24-7 can't even begin to penetrate a stalagmite of tomes. I always repaired there when certain telltale static patterns gave me to know that either Bush or Cheney was late-night eavesdropping on my cell calls. 

Another column, you will note, that reflects the incredible shrinking attention span. It's almost down to Twitter length now. Nine hundred words on a single topic, which is the tradition here, might as well be “War and Peace.”  Imagine if Plato had been obliged to twit the dialogues. And no rewrite.

Shakespeare thought a prudent first step would be to kill all the lawyers, but I think we need to give priority to these bigtime swindlers and bailout-abuser ceo's. Merely killing them all would take too long – the lawyers would drag it out until we were obliged to kill all of them, too — again. Waterboarding would be too good for them. Subjecting them to relentless Barry Manilow might raise the cruel-and-unusual hue-and-cry.

But I can see an argument for calling back into service the old bullhide that ruled Cummins Prison for 50 years. If nothing else, it could maintain focus. Could these shameless boodlers as a last resort be physically terrorized into better behavior?

Wise words on the matter from Pat Lynch, in an op-ed in the local daily the other day. He thinks there'll be no attitudinal change, no progress toward resolution, until an element of genuine repentance enters the picture. What a fine thought — to invite repentance into the mess and earnestly expect a rizvip. Repenting your sins is a very old, very becoming practice, and it should be as good for remissioning a business as it is for defragging a soul.

With repentance there can be forgiveness, and the two working in harmony in the present circumstance might do us all as fortifying a turn as a good warm slug of Hadacol.

Though it's hard to imagine some of these birds actually submitting to an experience as humbling as repentance — the Merrill Lynch twilight butthole, for example. The unctuous pitchman for the lethal Countrywide combo loan. 

Maybe if there really is justice, some of the victims will some time or other get to tour Hell.

I don't mean to be such a Btfsplk, hunkered under my little cloud like dour Jonah under his gourd. I try to keep this space sunny and upbeat — you know I do — its characteristic disposition being a little song, a little dance, a little seltzer in your pants. But sometimes it takes it out of you to see how the wicked prosper, and continue to prosper, and at whose expense. How the winners cheat and the cheaters win. How the lying liars lie and the chiseling chiselers chisel. How sure as the devil it'll be one of these blowhards blowing who gets in the last word.

Might be this weather, which can't make up its mind. Or nothing more than the depressing run of TV programs playing on the set behind me here. The channel selector is stuck on VTN, and at the moment Bro. Happy C. is regaling me and a studio congregation with a minutely detailed account of how God talked him into buying his first radio station. My ADD tends to kick in when comradely conversations between deities and mortals are alleged, but this testimony has droned past ordinary ennui with such dogged indifference to narrative imperative that I've begun to think it's bound to have an extraordinary moral, or at least a point, or that something of at least mild interest will be spoken sooner or later by one party or the other, and if I drift off now I'll miss it with the consequence of having utterly wasted an entire frazzling semi-afternoon.

Also, I just learned that the original Bozo has died.

 

 

 

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