Columns » Bob Lancaster

Sit down; shut up



We don't need to be more civil in our discourse. We need to stop the discourse altogether. It's only a sham anyway. Morons on one side and bleeding hearts on the other haven't had anything earnest to say to one another since Roe v. Wade, except eat s—t and die. Of late, it's reduced to anybody that don't agree with me is Hitler. A long way back to "We are all republicans; we are all federalists." Don't you know the Founders are proud how far we've come?

"Madness," one of the few survivors says at the end of the great River Kwai movie. It's all he can think to say about that particular congeries of lunacy. I'm not sure "madness" properly describes our breakdown. It has psychotic elements, yes; but it's more farcical than tragic, maybe because so much of it is just stupidity masquerading as discourse. Costumed as discourse. Strutting as discourse, and strutting's not easy for the thick.

 These ruminations bring to mind the late Veronica Lee Crabtree, the schoolbus driver in South Park. Veronica Lee didn't attempt discourse, didn't believe in it. About all she ever said — said it very slow and very loud, as an all-purpose en-route quietus — was "SIT DOWN and SHUT UP."

That wasn't discourse.  It wasn't a request; not a demand; merely a statement of how it was going to be, at least on her bus, with a nice last-nerve edge giving the little boogers to know that her intentions was serious. Good advice for bus young'uns; just as good for the rest of us.  We don't need discourse; we don't need civility; we don't need bipartisanship or a commitment to not being such a bunch of total a-holes. We simply need to stfd and stfu. You do. I do. And the multitude.

And that concludes today's column.

Put a -30- at the bottom of it — call in the dogs and pee on the fire. Stick a fork in me, I'm done for another week.

 ... Ah, except they don't pay me the large green to give you mugs a snowy newsprint expanse to ponder while you hunker there keeping your yap shut. It has to be hen-tracked right up to the catfish with black noise. So I'll blather on to a forced conclusion here by enumerating a few of the prime offenders of whom it might be hoped that they'll take a leading role in our sit-and-shut down-and-up Veronica Lee Crabtree experiment.

Rasslers, y'all need to s.d. & s.u.


Those of you who tweet on account of that's the extent of your attention spans.

Gamers. Rogues; mavericks.

Peckerwoods. Asshats.

Those of you who claim erections lasting more than four hours.

Squires urging bankrupts to hit that reset button.

Cell boomers in the next booth going at it before the salad and after the pie and on both sides of the meat.

Parents who don't have a clue.

Bumptious thumpers. Or thumptious bumpers.

The never-enoughs. All Texicans.

You Einsteins who say I'm entitled to my own opinions but not to my own facts. One fact from my private stock is, myofb.

National Anthem screechers and minor-category Oscar accepters. All venters.

You wags who think it's clever to conclude your remarks by saying "'Nuff said." 

You old open-carry boys who don't see it's a metaphor for your goobers hanging.

Talk radio. Its hosts, guests, callers, screeners, peanut gallery. And if they won't do it, won't sit and stifle, even after multiple warnings, we could adopt the former Rison grade-school teacher's strategy of duct-taping them to their desks, and if that doesn't shut them up, duct-taping their pieholes.

Duct-tape a whole talk-radio crew to their swivels and then duct-tape their pieholes and you'd still hear a whole lot of muffled trough-style squealing and grunting, but that would be an improvement, and you could always apply more duct-tape. They wouldn't likely realize there was any difference between ranting via trough squeals and ranting the usual way. Come to think of it, there is no essential difference. Except the duct-tape might block some of the usual spittle spray.

I hope you understand it's with some reluctance that I endorse measures curtailing free speech. I believe in free speech, even when it's speech that hurts my ears and makes me want to throw up, which most of it does now. I believe in free speech for Al Sharpton and Jay Sekalow, for Andrew Breitbart and Lt. Gen. Jerry Boykin and Cee Lo Green.  For Dick Morris soliciting another toesuck. I believe in free speech even for Tucker Carlson although with the caveat that he should also be tazed after about every 15 words.

I also know that bedlam is a healthy sign usually for a government or culture, and that it's the totalitarian places where peace and quiet, aka stagnation and conformity, reign.  A recent tome on Stalinist Russia carried the title "The Whisperers," because there then it was death to say anything loud enough for it to be prosecutorially misconstrued. Here now we've reversed those polarities: we don't have whisperers; we have windbags, blowhards. Who think you have to rant and rave and act the fool to get re-elected. And maybe you do. God help us, maybe you do. 

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