EDITORIAL CHANGE OF POLICY: The constant reader may remember that last year the hardworking staff of The Passing Parade decided, by unanimous voice vote, to scrap the previous philosophy animating this platform in favor of one of high moral dudgeon and intense seriousness towards the issues of the day. It became very clear very quickly that our habit of poking fun at the goings on in our happy little burg was doing absolutely nothing to increase the readership of this probably misbegotten adventure in electronic vanity publishing and that therefore we should move on to examine the present state of this our Great Republic from the point of view of conservatives living and working in an overly liberal state and in an overly liberal profession. In the months since we instituted the change in editorial policy, The Passing Parade has done stories on a wide variety of subjects, many of which had never been examined before in such a public manner, because we believe here, with Justice Brandeis, that sunlight is the best disinfectant, and that many of these stories needed the light of truth shone on them. I am proud of the work we have done here to bring these stories to your attention. I couldn’t be prouder of my staff if they were my own children; they are the greatest bunch of journalistic youngsters this old blogger has seen in many a long year on the word slinging trail. They have worked their guts out 24/7 in a month of Texas Tuesdays to bring you the facts and nothing but the facts, and I think their courage and commitment has shown itself clearly in their work.
It is therefore with a heavy heart that I must announce that being right is no longer enough. The falling readership of The Passing Parade means that we must take drastic steps to keep ourselves afloat. Whether we old newshounds care to admit it or not, the public does not want solid journalism anymore; they want shock, sensation, celebrity; what the public wants are not hard-hitting reportage of malfeasance in the halls of power or an understanding of the great issues of the day, but the low down on Britney’s next baby. In a news environment such as this, the public can only hear the most strident voices of both the Left and the Right over the general din, and we propose to lead this blog forward into the furor. If Ann Coulter can do it then so can we; in short, The Passing Parade will hereafter embrace…CONTROVERSY!
Yes, controversy; from here on in The Passing Parade will pander to the basest instincts of its readership; if you want celebrity fluff and the dirt on who in Hollywood is sleeping with who, then we are your source for that sort of hardhitting journalistic slop. We begin our career as mongers of controversies both real and imagined by announcing that this blog stands foursquare behind the proposal that the government ought to confiscate, by brute force, if need be, every television remote control device in the country. Today, a plague of obesity threatens the very social fabric of America’s couches. From one end of this our Great Republic to the other people are finding getting off of chairs, sofas, and toilets simply too difficult for mere words to describe, especially when some five hundred pound fat ass cops a squat in the men’s room in this egregious mold pit and backs up the toilet with enough ordure to fertilize the fields of a family of four in most Third World countries for a year and a half. I know my old man, may he rest in piece, a nearly lifelong member of the plumbers union local #2, used to say that manure is our bread and butter, but I am not in the union nor am I mechanically inclined—I have trouble telling the difference between a crescent wrench and a Phillips head screwdriver—but I do know when some people are just taking advantage of my good nature. The janitor had left for the day only an hour before, and so by virtue of my father’s occupation and being male I got to unclog the toilet. So off I went with plunger and plumber's snake in hand, back into the nether regions of this fungal hellhole where wise men and foolish iguanas never go, back into the darkest wilds of the men’s room, where the feculent miasma was so foul it could knock a buzzard out of a tree at a hundred yards. The less said about the whole sad affair the better, I think, although I will say that if my johnson were as long as that turd I would be a much happier man.
But this is merely noisome, not controversial, so let me return to the point of this screed. If this dolt had to get up to change the stations then maybe he wouldn’t be putting such a massive strain on the library’s porcelain. Once upon a time in America, people actually had to get up, go over to the television, and physically twist a dial in order to change the channel. There were only three networks then and sometimes PBS, and if you were lucky there would be one or two independent local stations where you could watch reruns of Hogan’s Heroes and Gilligan’s Island until you were blue in the face. Changing the channels was how America stayed in shape during the dark ages before the coming of cable. Today there are a plethora of channels and no need to get up to change them; the remote does it all for you, and you can sit there ramming potato chips and orange soda into your pie hole until the cows come home. Imagine how much healthier we would all be if we had to return to the halcyon days of changing the channels, how much exercise we could get if only we had to get up and turn the knob for each one of those six hundred channels we now get via cable or satellite. America would lose ten inches off its collective waist inside of six months, and rug and carpet manufacturers would experience a boom such as they have never seen before as sales skyrocket because of all the carpeting being worn out by viewers going between the couch and the television to change the channel.
But an America that will not surrender its guns will not easily surrender its remotes; no indeed, we do not try to kid ourselves here. The going will be tough and it may be necessary to call out the National Guard in certain areas, such as our local firehouse during football season, in order to get a hold of all of those pernicious devices, and we are also certain the underworld will do its best to profit from the new dispensation. Customs agents will have to know in advance that desperate characters will try to flood the country with illicit remote controls. But we cannot look at difficulties alone. The public needs protection from the growing menace of remote controls, and we here at The Passing Parade support any measure that will finally bring an end to the use of this device here in our great country.
It is therefore with a heavy heart that I must announce that being right is no longer enough. The falling readership of The Passing Parade means that we must take drastic steps to keep ourselves afloat. Whether we old newshounds care to admit it or not, the public does not want solid journalism anymore; they want shock, sensation, celebrity; what the public wants are not hard-hitting reportage of malfeasance in the halls of power or an understanding of the great issues of the day, but the low down on Britney’s next baby. In a news environment such as this, the public can only hear the most strident voices of both the Left and the Right over the general din, and we propose to lead this blog forward into the furor. If Ann Coulter can do it then so can we; in short, The Passing Parade will hereafter embrace…CONTROVERSY!
Yes, controversy; from here on in The Passing Parade will pander to the basest instincts of its readership; if you want celebrity fluff and the dirt on who in Hollywood is sleeping with who, then we are your source for that sort of hardhitting journalistic slop. We begin our career as mongers of controversies both real and imagined by announcing that this blog stands foursquare behind the proposal that the government ought to confiscate, by brute force, if need be, every television remote control device in the country. Today, a plague of obesity threatens the very social fabric of America’s couches. From one end of this our Great Republic to the other people are finding getting off of chairs, sofas, and toilets simply too difficult for mere words to describe, especially when some five hundred pound fat ass cops a squat in the men’s room in this egregious mold pit and backs up the toilet with enough ordure to fertilize the fields of a family of four in most Third World countries for a year and a half. I know my old man, may he rest in piece, a nearly lifelong member of the plumbers union local #2, used to say that manure is our bread and butter, but I am not in the union nor am I mechanically inclined—I have trouble telling the difference between a crescent wrench and a Phillips head screwdriver—but I do know when some people are just taking advantage of my good nature. The janitor had left for the day only an hour before, and so by virtue of my father’s occupation and being male I got to unclog the toilet. So off I went with plunger and plumber's snake in hand, back into the nether regions of this fungal hellhole where wise men and foolish iguanas never go, back into the darkest wilds of the men’s room, where the feculent miasma was so foul it could knock a buzzard out of a tree at a hundred yards. The less said about the whole sad affair the better, I think, although I will say that if my johnson were as long as that turd I would be a much happier man.
But this is merely noisome, not controversial, so let me return to the point of this screed. If this dolt had to get up to change the stations then maybe he wouldn’t be putting such a massive strain on the library’s porcelain. Once upon a time in America, people actually had to get up, go over to the television, and physically twist a dial in order to change the channel. There were only three networks then and sometimes PBS, and if you were lucky there would be one or two independent local stations where you could watch reruns of Hogan’s Heroes and Gilligan’s Island until you were blue in the face. Changing the channels was how America stayed in shape during the dark ages before the coming of cable. Today there are a plethora of channels and no need to get up to change them; the remote does it all for you, and you can sit there ramming potato chips and orange soda into your pie hole until the cows come home. Imagine how much healthier we would all be if we had to return to the halcyon days of changing the channels, how much exercise we could get if only we had to get up and turn the knob for each one of those six hundred channels we now get via cable or satellite. America would lose ten inches off its collective waist inside of six months, and rug and carpet manufacturers would experience a boom such as they have never seen before as sales skyrocket because of all the carpeting being worn out by viewers going between the couch and the television to change the channel.
But an America that will not surrender its guns will not easily surrender its remotes; no indeed, we do not try to kid ourselves here. The going will be tough and it may be necessary to call out the National Guard in certain areas, such as our local firehouse during football season, in order to get a hold of all of those pernicious devices, and we are also certain the underworld will do its best to profit from the new dispensation. Customs agents will have to know in advance that desperate characters will try to flood the country with illicit remote controls. But we cannot look at difficulties alone. The public needs protection from the growing menace of remote controls, and we here at The Passing Parade support any measure that will finally bring an end to the use of this device here in our great country.
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