We'll Dismember, Come November

Dear Dr. Bones,


Up to a point, the Empress Dowager of Camelot is fair game for THUWF, "Those Hire Up Who Fund," [0] ... fund, that is, frathouse babes, an’ Jay School fruits, an’ pretty near every wad of Tee Putty from Lovecraft Country to the confines of Nieuw Amasterdam.  Plus the Fingers of Fehrnstrom preëminently. 


This morning’s gruesome twosome,. however, are not givin’ their Venerable Funders full bang for the buck. Or not unless their firstlordships have agreed in so many words that they do not care what the "small people" of America’s Otherparty scribble, qualitywise. It is fun--partly because it is not utterly impossible--to imagine that the Herald angels are actually in possession of formal dispensation from the FireArchy, or at least many informal winks an’ nods an’ repetitions of "¡Our fishwrap, whight or ’rong!" Moreover, because the general whighteousness of the Herald can not sanely be doubted, it really would be pretty ... pretty typical, if the V.F.’s suddenly decided that they like firin’ babes an’ fruits even better than they like fundin’ ’em. [1]


One does not say "even better than their firstlordships like READING the Herald" for the chances that Those Hire Up Who Fund actually work through G*re’s Gift to Louisedayhicksville are nil. Their freelordships may have the shofer or the second-best parlour maid or the crimmigrant garden boy, if Jaimito has picked up enough Americanoe, read the BH an’ pass along the good (?) bits, but no more than that.


Thirty years ago a respectable source on the Classwar, reported that what he called "the rich out of sight" seem to buy only "books on ’Management’" [2] That was well before the FireArchy switched from English to Powe®Poin™ as the internal langue de guerre of their Class. This epochmakin’ transition probably means that nowadays their firstlordships buy natural-language books of any type strictly as gifts for the Lower Orders, amongst whom may be included the firstlordships’ naturalborn kiddies up to the age of puberty.


Anybooby who wants to boggle her mind retains the freedumb to wonder exactly who would be the ideal recipient for a complimentary subscription to the much-esteemed Herald of LDHV. Paddy tells Eye he figures that everybody who likes that sort of thing is a subscriber already, which can not be technically accurate, but probably points in the whight direction. Of course some out-of-step firstlord, with more sense of humour than most Classmates possess, might buy a year ot two of the fruits an’ the babes an’ Massa Howie for some especially obnoxious Lieberal or Demoncrat, who can safely be counted on NOT to like it that sort of thing.


(( It occurs to Eye that Comradess V. R. Kennedy-Sprecher-Reggie might do for this purpose. ))


Meanwhile, back at the Bangless Buck Ranch, low-grade Otherparty operatives Ch. X. Cassidy an’ H. X. Chabot plainly never thought that to scribble pious viennasausage that runs to the tune of "Snub of Vikki Kennedy won’t alter race" or to go out trawlin’ for Fratboy-friendly quotes such as "voters likely won’t remember" makes no sense unless there really was somethin’ kinda deplorable here somewhere.


Those of us who survey the circus with plusquam Sprecher-Reggie impartiality think it is kinda nifty that ten days ago it was the Little Flowers of St. Elisabeth of H*rv*rdy who could not reassure us often enough the Law Squaw fuss would evaporate prontíssimo, vanishing quicker than morning doo-doo on the grass of August. A discomplimentary Herald subscription might actually do thosevolks a little good, were it not that the "gentlemen who dwell above the clouds" would not dream of studying the damnthing personally.


(Well below everybody’s salt is the Herald of Louisedayhicksville seated.)


By the time we get to Hallowe’en, so many un-altering long-forgottens about both Fratboy and Her Beatitude may have piled up that a Froodian slip-up will be almost inevitable.


A second symptom of the bestembrightness gap is that Ch. X. Cassidy an’ H. X. Chabot do not even try to implicate Empress Dowager Victoria directly.  As I said, such implication is possible and even legitimate, but it takes a little more than simply barkin’ with Howard Lawrence Louis [3] Carr, "¿Don’t Yoo know who Eye yam?"


Happy days.
--JHM


__
[0] Rhymes with ’goof’. Not inappropriately.


[1] The reference is to Governor Romney’s precious words on this topic, which were a little too brief for Paddy McTammany’s full edification. Unless what goes on over to the fornmer Allston (Massachusetts) Academy of Chirurgy and Haircut Science is far more esoteric than Paddy and Eye have always thought, is His Excellency, who is M.B.A. / J.D. ’75, cannot long indulge in the great sport of his Class without doin’ a certain amount of hirin’ as well. To be sure, the nature of baincappin’ appears (to ignorant lay sheeps, at least) to be such as to have allowed H. E. to delegate that unpleasantness to less exalted members of the FireArchy.

In the McCarthy Era, there was a proverbial expression about Fordham alumnuses spyin’ on Ivory Leaguers--Comrade Hisssss, that would be--in pious an’ patriotic pursuit of Trooth, Justice an’ the AEIdeology. Nowadays, perhaps Master Horatio Alger is engaged by somebooby with an M. B. A. from, say, the Yooniversity of Feenicks, an’ only runs into a top-drawer FireArch raised up at the feet of Freelord Semiperfesser Neill von Ferguson (or at some slightly inferior seminary of Mammon) at firin’ time.

Since it is Master Horry who is gettin’ scrooged, he may not fully appreciate the neo-irony that in fact he really *did* made it to the top of the greasy secret-sector pole--whight before Big Management proper pushed him out the boardroom window. I believe there has been more than one Science Fiction entertainment in which Master Horry madly fancies he has finally been invited to run with the huntin’ an’ shootin’ countyvolks, only to find that ’tis rather the foxes an’ the hounds with whom he has been Classified for purposes of genteel field sport.


 [2] The shudderquotes were set in place by Comrade Fussell himself, unless Dr. Alzheimer is gaining ground faster than ever.  Nobody who pokes fun at Haircut Science can be all bad.


[3] ¿If we could just see the birth certificate? Please.