I’ve never
been a big science fiction fan. I liked the original Star Trek when I was a kid and Star
Wars when I was a teenager, but as a genre science fiction has never been
something I couldn’t live without. I’ve always been more of a history or
biography person; the top shelf of my book case has seventeen books on the
American Civil War, which is, when you think about it, sixteen more than I
really need. Or, as my mother says, ‘why do you need all those books for, you
know who won.’ I bring up all this mostly unnecessary literary throat clearing
because one of the best lines I’ve ever read came from a sci-fi novel a friend
loaned to me when I was in high school, which was probably the first and last
sci-fi novel I ever read. I don’t remember the title or the author’s name,
although I do remember that it had an orange cover and was about an
interstellar war between humans and an extraterrestrial race that looked like
walruses or manatees or some other large and aquatic mammal. In the novel, the
official language of Earth is Spanish (it could happen) and the politicians
ruling the Earth in our Hispanophonic future did not want to call the war they
were fighting against the hordes of evil extraterrestrial walruses a war. No,
these politicians called their politics implemented by other means the
emergency or the unpleasantness or something to that effect, something very
bland and bureaucratic that could mean a war or a traffic accident on
Interstate 84 or that the sea turtles were staging a mass break from the local
aquarium. The politicians did not like to use the word war because, the author
wrote, certain words bring with them inevitable commitments with unknowable
results, and as politicians both in science fiction and in real life dislike
inevitable commitments with unknowable consequences, it was best for all
involved to avoid using those words at all.
I bring up
this bit of semantic parsing because semantic parsing is all the rage in the
pestilential swamp that serves as the capital of this our Great Republic.
The people there can parse a perfectly good sentence into tiny bits faster than
Emeril LaGasse can chop an onion, except when Emeril chops an onion what’s
chopped still tastes like an onion. The whole point of parsing in M. L’Enfant’s
dream city is to reduce the meaning of words to whatever some political Humpty-Dumpty
wants them to mean. For example, the
minions of the former junior Senator from Illinois have determined that He is angry at
someone, angry enough to blow these anonymous someones to kingdom come via
remote control, but they will not tell the citizenry just who these nameless evildoers
are. Now, I am not sure of the details here—I don’t get out much, you see—but
it appears to me that the question of motivation is very important to our
Illinois Incitatus and His flacks, very important indeed, especially when He
and His flacks wish to make it perfectly clear that the nameless evildoers in
the eastern Mediterranean and southwest Asia are not committing the crimes they
are committing for the reasons they say they are committing these crimes, but
for some other reason altogether, a reason completely unrelated to the Islamic
faith, and the flacks will parse any sentence that might suggest otherwise to
complete and utter pulp. This seems a little odd to me; I would not have
thought that a government full of secular humanists and nominal Christians
would be such experts on the finer points of Islamic theology, but stranger
things have happened, you know. I had a co-worker several years ago who took
investment advice from his parrot—the bird thought the world of Treasury bills
and municipal bonds, if you’re interested in that sort of thing—and he has done
very well for himself (the former co-worker, not the parrot, who can only enjoy
the fruits of his or her financial acumen vicariously, again proving, as if it
needed proving, the remunerative utility of the opposable thumb). So it could
happen. Really. I’m not making that up.
We must, the
solonic classes tell us again and again, address the root causes of the extreme
violence occurring against Jews, Christians, Yazidis, Kurds, and the more than
occasional sundry others who happen to be in the neighborhood when some people
are overcome with the need to kill, maim, rape, and pillage gets the better of
their moral sense. In dealing with these poor murderous wretches, we must not
call them names that imply that they are acting in the name of their religious
beliefs, which they are not, but we should use a name that is nonsectarian and
inoffensive to all. Well, that is all very understandable, I suppose, and therefore
I move, Mr. Chairman, that from this point forward we here in the West refer to
this mob of pillaging scum as calf’s liver.
In calling them calf’s liver we avoid confusing the good Muslims with
the doubleplusungood Muslims and we avoid even suggesting that certain Muslims,
especially the doubleplusungood Muslims, have a tendency to go overboard in
following the tenets of their faith or even imply that Islam as a faith might
in any way be a tad more hostile to the filthy infidel sons of apes and pigs who
do not profess the truth of the Prophet’s message, PCBs upon him. No, indeed, I
think I can say with a fair amount of certainty that damn near everyone hates
calf’s liver and can do so in good conscience.
And who will find
our declaration of official hostility towards calf’s liver offensive? Calves?
I hardly think so; the calves are dead and therefore hardly in any
position to take any kind of offense. I’m sure that given a choice the calves
would prefer to have their livers back and be frolicking through an open field
somewhere doing whatever it is that calves do before their inevitable
conversion into veal parmigiana, but most of life is finding out that you don’t
really have a choice in the matter; when it’s your turn to go, it’s your turn
to go, period. That’s just the way it
is, as the song goes, some things will never change.
Labels: Barack Obama, cattle, cupcakes, French fries, Islam, jihad, political correctness, Roberta Vasquez, semantics
