Thursday, January 22, 2009

Piers Akerman, Brack Obama, Roughnecks, Blinkers and the Fat Owl Strikes Again

A friend has suggested that I tend to be a little abusive of the right wing rascals I write about.

Well yes but the Pravda-loving Piers Akerman, fat owl of the remove, is so obtuse and persistently, odiously relentless in his humbuggery, that to do anything else would be to give the game away. As the Phantom wisely observed on many occasions, you have to be rough on roughnecks.

In real life, I'm a milk-drinking moderate (provided, like my grandmother, the milk contains a tote of rum or brandy) but as ratbag right wing moderators aren't interested in logic or rational debate, there's not much point in deploying same.

No, they treat it like a football game, as if they're beleaguered Manly Sea Eagle supporters, constantly under attack by fibro and latte lovers (think New England Patriots if you come from the land of real football). And they're never afraid to attack the man, woman or child, to go the gouge and the coathanger, to clutch the balls or grope the crutch. They mainly care about the location of the jugular and the most direct route for the fangs.

Playing fair and all that nancy boy stuff is what liberals do. Politeness might get you somewhere in a convention of librarians, but when you meet up with a Murdoch bovver boy in a dark back page of the Daily Terror, make sure you bring a chain or two and wear some knuckledusters as well. They're churlish, they show a lack of generosity and grace, they know little of optimism and joy, but much about denigration, diminution and dyspepsia.

That's how the fat owl can start off a column, headed Brack Obama's actions must speak louder than flowery contrivances with a standard disclaimer "while it may seem uncharitable to be critical of a new US President on his Inauguration Day", and then straightaway it's on with the steel capped boots, and into a savage kicking.

The fat owl starts by mis-spelling Brack's name in his header - take that you softie, I can use a diminutive fluently and with the worst of them - then goes on to mention how Obama opposed the nomination of the chief justice (and why not, the twit couldn't get a few words at the swearing in right, let alone the law of the land?). (Why not bring out the old sneer about Hussein, Piers, going soft in your old age?)

Then it's on to the surge in Iraq, the keeping of Robert Gates in cabinet, the largely inconsequential content of the speech, and the subtleties of race. Obama you see, according to the fat owl, isn't a black with a slave heritage. His father was a Kenyan, while Colin Powell was a West Indian. Take that, all you black loving, slave disowning liberals.

I don't think the fat owl has any idea of the offensive, jaundiced, plantation owning blinkers he wears when he writes this kind of muck. Why my man, bring me out some more mint julep while I check out my records to see exactly what kind of mulatto you might be. You see there's something in the genes that might affect your abilities, or at least provide some incongruities I can rabbit on about (to prove I understanding nothing).

Then it's back to the Fat Owl's current favorite cracked record - the economy is stuffed, the time for flowery words has passed, and Obama will be judged by his actions. What a tragedy the economy was ruined those eight long years ago, in the last executive order issued by Clinton (or did it happen when the Democrats took over Congress?). Whatever, thank the lord, the good Shrub and his wonderful team or the greedy at the head of the American financial system had nothing to do with it.

Too abusive, you reckon? These turkeys love to dish it out, but right now, right here in this point of time, they're losers. In these perilous and uncertain times, induced by their own kind - the lords and ladies of the ruling classes - the world suddenly has found new voices. And they ain't the sheep of the right wing commentariat. Specifically they ain't the braying of donkeys, or those who have become like sounding brass or tinkling cymbals.

Is gloating unseemly?  Hell yes. Is it fun? You betcha. Sometimes when confronted by a fool, it's seemly to call him one, and hope that someday he might end up with the wisdom of the fool in King Lear. Though one suspects in the case of the fat owl ... fat chance.

One day in, and this kind of crap keeps getting written. Soon enough it will be time to put away childish things like the fat owl. Meantime, must line my boots with a special stainless steel toe worthy of Alex and the droogs. And then it'll be time to get out my zoot suit ... I feel like dancing ...

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