So, there’s been an embargo in Chez Big Mike re: NPR’s Morning Edition. See, the radio news magazine has been a constant in whatever crib I’ve occupied for a good 30 years now. Every single morning, I’ve tuned to whatever NPR affiliate in whatever city I’ve lived in to catch the latest dope about town, about this holy land, and about the world.
There’ve been WBEZ in Chi., WFPL in Louisville, and now WFIU here in this sprawling megalopolis. I’ve even adopted the various booth announcers as members of my family, as it were. As I told Annie Corrigan once, hers is the first voice I hear every morning. It’s as though we’re married. She smiled at me even as she cocked her head like a pooch that’d heard some bizarre sound.
In any case, I hadn’t listened to WFIU since November 9 this annum, the reason being I couldn’t bear hearing the phrase “president-elect Trump,” especially after already having to endure nausea and vomiting on a daily basis earlier in the year. Oh, I kept on reading my New York Times every day, sure. I had to keep up with events. But being hammered away with reminders that we’d elected that man so early in the AM — before I even took my first sip of life-giving joe — would be a form of torture.
I knew by and by I’d come back around to my morning tradition. And today happened to be that day. I decided, hell, I’ve got get back into the swing of things. The son of a bitch is the president — I have to be a big man about it. So I switched on the kitchen radio.
Whaddya think was the first thing I heard? By god in heaven I swear it’s true — it was an interview with L’il Duce‘s trusted consigliere, Newt Friggin’ Gingrich.
Newton Lerory McPherson of Harrisburg Pennsylvania.
Bet you didn’t know that. The Georgia Beetch was spawned at Harrisburg Hospital midway through WWII. His mother was a 16-year-old who was impregnated by some 19 y.o. dude who apparently took a powder within days of shotgun marrying Newt’s ma. She soon re-married, to some career Army guy named Gingrich, and there you go. The Gingriches moved to Georgia when Daddy-o G was stationed at Ft. Benning. The rest is Republican history.
The author of the Contract with America basically described L’il Duce as a stand-up comic whose punchlines the audience shouldn’t take as gospel.
You know, just what we need in these perilous times.
Anyway, I plan to tune in to WFIU again tomorrow at sunrise. It turns out I’m a bigger man than I ever thought I’d be. Hell, we’ll all have to pull ourselves up to maximum height over the next four years.
He Dropped His Wallet?
I’m not a conspiracy theorist, as loyal Pencillistas well know. The vast majority of governmental leaders, corporate CEOs, think tank navel-gazers, and advocates and activists for this cause or that are no less a collection of boobs and self-interested slobs than any other random sampling of the population. That any of them could come together in secret and plot out world-shaking schemes or choreograph media coverage or even predict how the citizenry will react to any of their machinations is clearly and absolutely the provenance of feverish espionage novelists alone.
Still, I cocked my head like the aforementioned puzzled hound when I heard this morning that investigators in Germany had found some kind of an ID doc in the cab of that truck that’d been driven through the Christmas crowd in Berlin Monday.
Really? An ID? And, oh — natch — it’s for some Tunisian dude, Tunisia being a sufficiently exotic, other-sounding locale.
So, here are your possibilities:
- With ISIS claiming credit for the Christmas market smash-up, the operative who gave it the gas as well as his puppet-masters are the dumbest-assed conspirators this side of Dick Cheney and his purported crew of airliner hijackers
- The German coppers think we’re all idiots and will fall for any translucent bushwa that pins the blame on a Muslim
- The report is wrong
I’ve got to say, Door No. 2 makes a lot of sense because a huge percentage of us is hot to trot for blaming any and all atrocities on those stinkin’ Ay-rabs, even the ones who come from countries that aren’t technically Ay-rab but, who cares, they’re all Ay-rab out that way anyway, aren’t they?
Plus, yeah, we are all idiots.
My real pick is No. 4: The planet is crawling with no-good lunatic jerks, a few of whom every once in a while get behind the wheel of a monster semi, get their hands on several tons of explosive fertilizer, or who weasel their way into airliner pilot school with the idea of committing a super-bad world-order-changing crime.
There are more than seven billion of us members of Homo Sapiens sapiens running around this globe. Say one in a million is deranged enough to think his brilliant, dramatic, mad scientist caper will bend the world to his vision and you have a grand total of some seven thousand such psychopaths walking amongst us on any given day.
Yeesh. That’ll teach me to listen to radio news in the morning.
On The Radio