Aping the English Language

 | 

Are you annoyed, angered, outraged by our national illiteracy? Or have you come to be amused by it? Do you wake every day grinding your teeth about the ridiculous mistakes you expect to find, not in the spam section of your email, but in the published words of people who are actually paid to write the bizarre things they write? Or do you rise bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to enjoy the latest nonsense?

I am still one of the intellectual Cro-Magnons who belong to the first category, but I’m evolving toward the second one. The American language is becoming too ridiculous not to laugh about. Suppose that a pianist sits down to perform her first recital, and forgets several bars of the sonata she wants to play. That would be sad, perhaps tragic. But suppose that a chimpanzee sits down at a piano and starts running his paws over the keys as if he were a concert pianist. That would be funny. It might even be entertaining. If chimps have charm, this would be a moment when their charm could be appreciated. The fumbling could be understood as a momentarily interesting, perhaps exhilarating, confirmation of what we already knew: we are smarter than chimps. Some of us, anyway.

This month’s examples of idiotic verbal mistakes are presented in that spirit of fun. At least most of them are.

On August 31, Fox News reported on an explosion in a Paris apartment house: “Initial reports are that this was caused by a potential gas leak.” How great is that! An apartment house blows up, and Fox blames it on a potential gas leak. Imagine what an actual gas leak would have done.

The American language is becoming too ridiculous not to laugh about.

On September 4, John Nolte, writing on Breitbart’s site, noted that “USA Todayis Gannett's flagship publication and enjoys the highest circulation of any other American newspaper.” A paradox worthy of Zeno himself: USA Today is both itself and something other.

On September 17, the Cleveland Plain Dealer published an article about the various kinds of incarceration available for T.J. Lane in the Ohio State Penitentiary. Lane, as you may recall, is the young gentleman who in 2012 assassinated several other young people at a high school in Chardon, Ohio, then showed up in court wearing a shirt on which he had written “KILLER,” and delivered bawdy insults to the victims’ families. This month, he escaped from a ludicrously under-secured facility, was recaptured, and was sent to a real prison. After detailing the penitentiary’s super-max provisions, the article notes that “the maximum-security portion houses about 300 slightly less restrictive inmates.” I can understand that some inmates have to be more restricted than others, but what are the inmates restricting? Their guards’ ability to restrict them, perhaps?

The most entertaining result of T.J.’s escape was the bewildered speculation pursued by many channels of public information about the motivation for his latest escapade. CNN’s online headline (September 12) says it all: “Chardon School Killer T J Lane: Tightlipped about Motive, Escape.” T.J., it seems, failed to say why he scaled the fence and left the prison. Readers can only guess why anyone would want to do a thing like that.

This month, even John McCain showed that he still has what it takes to entertain us. On September 11 he had an amusing confrontation with Jay Carney, formerly the president’s chief prevaricator (i.e., press secretary). In this instance, I suppose, McCain’s heart was in the right place. He called Carney a liar, and why should he call him anything else? But what he said was, “You are again, Mr. Carney, saying facts that are patently false.” Paradox again! Only a radical Pyrrhonist could so boldly assert that even facts can be false, and patently false. The biggest paradox, however, is that Sen. McCain, a man who for many years has done nothing but talk, more or less in English, can be so patently ignorant of the meaning of a common English monosyllable. The word facts is foreign to him.

Jonathan Swift claimed that he wouldn’t satirize people who didn’t court his satire with their ridiculous pretensions. He “spared a hump or crooked nose / Whose owners set not up for beaux.” To vary Swift’s metaphor, it isn’t sporting to make fun of lame people who slip and fall in the street, but when lame people advertise themselves as Olympic athletes, then one has a right to be amused.

If you attend to these sickening displays of self-righteousness, you may be amused by how clumsy they are. They’re almost as subtle, or convincing, as an ape in a tuxedo.

You can see how this applies to McCain, who smugly invoked the rare word patently, only to fall headlong over simple facts. It also applies to the headline writer of the Daily Mail. On September 3, the paper published a translation of one of those arrogant messages that ISIS sends to world leaders. The headline over the article was: “This message is addressed to you, oh Putin.” Oh, how literate! Oh, how parodically grandiloquent! The problem is that the headline writer and the headline approver and the headline proofreader, none of them, knew that the signal of the English vocative is O, not oh. It’s hard to parody someone else’s exalted tone when you don’t know the forms of exalted language.

Is this important? Is it a mere slippage from O to oh? A mere confusion between a vocative and an interjection? A mere revelation that someone doesn’t grasp the language of Milton, Shakespeare, or common English hymns? Or is it another ominous sign that these days, most people are more willing to write than they are to read? After all, when you read, you run into all kinds of whacky old words, and who wants to do that?

If you care about words as tools of meaning, you may have a hard time seeing any fun in the continual erosion of the language. But you won’t deny the dark humor of the latest disaster to afflict Malaysia Airlines. It was a verbal disaster, not an aeronautical one; this time, the company didn’t lose any planes. But it was the kind of disaster that is happening wherever English is the standard tongue, and tongues have found that they can operate without any connection to brains.

Devising its current advertising campaign, Malaysia Airlines began by confusing wit with vulgarity. There’s a vulgar expression that unfortunately has some popularity today. That expression is bucket list. A bucket list is an enumeration of the things you want to do before you kick the bucket; i.e., die. Kicking the bucket was funny at the start of It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (1963), in the scene where Jimmy Durante kicks it. Bucket list is an attempt — a stupid attempt — to bring back the fun. But just when it was becoming obvious that bucket list had jumped the shark, Malaysia Airlines, famous for its multitude of dead passengers, initiated an ad campaign called “My Ultimate Bucket List.” If you submitted the “best” bucket list — whatever “best” might mean, although I guess it wouldn’t mean smoking less weed or apologizing to the people you’ve wronged — you would get some kind of prize.

Most people’s idea of an appropriate prize from Malaysia Airlines would be survival, but a thought like that would never occur to a company like that. The company was shocked to discover that anyone could possibly have been offended. Nevertheless, it changed the name of the contest to “Win an iPad or Malaysia Airlines Flight to Malaysia.” I’d accept the first gift, after checking it out for possible safety problems, but I’d pass on the second.

The errors I’ve discussed so far are mostly innocent, monkeylike antics; but not every verbal fumble can be described in that way. Oh, no. Consider the verbal wallpaper that goes by the name of “public service announcements.” If you attend to these sickening displays of self-righteousness, you may be amused by how clumsy they are. They’re almost as subtle, or convincing, as an ape in a tuxedo. This month, the PSA campaign that caught my attention was some advice dished out by a group ostensibly concerned with keeping people’s lives from being ruined by arrests for drunk driving — in other words, a group intent on threatening people with having their lives ruined if they don’t follow its advice.

Make no mistake: people’s lives are ruined by pressure groups like this. I have known several people who lost their jobs and therefore their families because they were poor and they got stopped by a cop and were found to be “drunk” and were jailed and fined and lost their license to drive, which meant that they lost their ability to work. Their lives were devastated, not because they did any damage but because the amount of alcohol in their blood was a trifle higher than a politically identified limit fixed by the law and continually lowered in response to the demands of mad mothers, crony capitalist insurance companies, do-good committees and foundations, municipalities cadging fines, and other lovable persons or nonpersons.

When people try to win an argument by redefining words, they are admitting that they’ve lost the argument but insist on winning anyway.

But that isn’t enough. Enough isn’t a word that busybodies ever understand. Their public service announcements now warn us that we will be arrested even if we are not driving drunk. They claim that we will be arrested for simply driving buzzed: “Buzzed driving,” the ads assert, “is drunken driving.” To which any ordinary speaker of English will reply, “No, it isn’t; that’s why they are called by two different words.” To be buzzed or tohave a buzz on or to have a buzz going is very different from chucking empties of Jim Beam out the window as you drive the wrong way on a one-way street. Everybody knows that. The confusion of drunk with buzzed is an intentional attempt to intimidate. It’s similar to all those other means by which contemporary puritans try to confuse normal conduct, or mild misconduct, with actual crime, and prepare to administer appropriate punishment. Thus, smacking a kid’s bottom becomes child abuse. Having sex with someone who is buzzed or who did not specifically say yes becomes rape. Accusing the president of laziness becomes racism, and declining to subsidize young women’s birth control becomes sexism.

It’s a rule with few exceptions: when people try to win an argument by redefining words, they are admitting that they’ve lost the argument but insist on winning anyway. There would be no reason to call spanking child abuse if people who are opposed to all corporal punishment had convinced the majority of the public that they were right. But they didn’t, so now they are trying to get public opinion, and ultimately the law, to punish spanking by jumbling it together with abuse. Their ideological cousins try the same stunt, by jumbling racism together with counting President Obama’s golf games.

Here is a great way of creating confusion: making one expression stand for very different things. A curious example of this method is what has happened to the most popular political expression of 2014, boots on the ground. This phrase was once fresh and vivid, and its purpose was clear. It was meant to identify and exclude a certain kind of military force: “There will be no boots on the ground.” But boots on the ground established itself as a cliché that could be given as many delusive meanings as friends of the most transparent administration in history could come up with. Its ostensible meaning is still no troops on the ground, but its real meaning has become no troops on the ground except advisors on the ground; no combat troops on the ground except those originally intended to be combat troops; and no foot soldiers on the ground — only paratroopers, Navy SEALS, Marines, active military advisors, Boy Scouts . . .

And no, I don’t think that’s entertaining.




Share This


One Flapper Escapes the Trap

 | 

America’s glorious War on Drugs is viewed with increasing skepticism. Because people keep proposing different variations of it, we never stop talking about it. But we keep talking about it in the same way. Public debate almost always dwells on the superficial aspects, rarely touching upon those closest to the heart.

The argument that addiction to, or abuse of, certain substances is of greater concern to “society” than it is to us as individuals is the basis of every form of prohibition. It claims that we belong to others more than we do to ourselves. But to prohibit certain substances because people might abuse them is a violation of human dignity. If our lives are “society’s” more than they are our own, then we are something less than entirely human.

I’ve never used illegal drugs. Even though I was a teenager during the seventies, when supposedly “everybody did it.” Was that because drugs were against the law? I don’t think so.

I didn’t hang around with people who had access to anything stronger than marijuana. And I had plenty of opportunity to see how that affected them. It made them stupid, and it made them stink. I didn’t want to be stupid, and I didn’t want to stink.

As an adult, I became addicted to an entirely legal substance: alcohol. Would I have used it if it had been illegal? As illegality wasn’t what deterred me from smoking weed, it probably would have had little to do with keeping me from drinking. I liked the taste of booze, and it made me feel powerful and utterly brilliant. It was fetishized (by the “society” to which I supposedly belong) as a rite of passage to all things grown-up and glamorous, and those were exactly the things I wanted to be.

Had I been a flapper in the speakeasy days, I’d have been swilling gin and dancing the Charleston right along with the rest of them.

Perhaps sensing the utilitarian coldness of the “society owns us” line, many prohibitionists appeal to our Inner Five-Year-Old. They simply care about us — more than we may care about ourselves. But why does their concern for us take precedence over our own? It comes around, no less than the other argument, to claiming that somebody else is more important than we are.

Their concern purportedly trumps ours. But I’ve known many alcoholics and other addicts who are valiantly battling their addiction. And not one of us got clean or sober because anybody else wanted us to. Any recovery program will tell you that is never enough. If we live and recover instead of giving up and dying, it can only be because we value ourselves enough to believe that our lives are worthwhile.

No one else can make you value yourself. Nor is it likely to add to your estimation of yourself to be told that somebody else’s interest in you is more important than your own. None of the people who have overcome an addiction to illegal drugs did so because of such an appeal. That wouldn’t appeal to anybody. Which is probably why — since it is the argument so often used — so many people are hooked on illegal drugs.

The drive to illegalize booze got traction during the industrial revolution. The saloon became the place to be counted, herded, and manipulated into voting as the powerful desired. Might this not have been because people had already begun to feel more like sheep than like human beings? Could not the desire to intoxicate oneself into oblivion have something to do with the abuse of alcohol (and drugs) in the first place?

How, then, will playing upon the sense that somebody else owns us — that we are not people in our own right in any meaningful sense — make us want to drink or use drugs any less?

Within every individual is that spark of humanity that gives us our identity. That recognition of our own worth. It goes beyond the mere survival instinct found in animals, driving each of us not only to exist, but to live. To strive for wisdom and achievement. To be free not simply from some trap (the highest aspiration of an animal), but to pursue a higher purpose.

I got sober — and stay sober — because I want to live the fullest life possible. The more “society” permits the liberty for human beings to reach their potential, the less attractive an escape into intoxication will be. Then prohibition schemes of every sort will be as dead as the flappers and bootleggers of our past.




Share This


A Program that Any Drunk Can Understand

 | 

Libertarianism enjoys the contributions of many pioneers, several of whom spring immediately to mind. There’s H.L. Mencken, to whom I recently paid homage in these pages. There’s Murray Rothbard and Ludwig von Mises, Rose Wilder Lane, Isabel Paterson, and, of course, Ayn Rand. There are others I’ve neglected to mention here, but of whom readers may remind me. And there are Bill W. and Doctor Bob.

At my mention of the last two, some may scratch their heads. They may search their anthologies of political works, trying to find some mention of these eminent persons. When they come up short, they may conclude that I am kidding. But though Bill W. and Doctor Bob are better known in Twelve-Step recovery circles than in libertarian ones, and though neither may ever have considered himself a libertarian, together they formulated a philosophy that, in many ways, bears a striking similarity to the political convictions we hold dear. They were the founders of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Of all political persuasions, libertarianism most nearly conforms to the principles of A.A. Both are clear and simple enough for any drunk to understand. Both adhere to guidelines everybody learned in kindergarten. And if most people hadn’t forgotten those guidelines by the time they graduated from high school, we would all live in a much better world.

We are not run by any elites who are presumed to know better than we do. Our leadership always emerges from the bottom up, and is guided not by airy theories but by practical experience.

How close is A.A. to libertarian principles? Strikingly close. We Twelve-Steppers believe in taking responsibility for ourselves. We believe, as we like to say, in “keeping our side of the street clean.” In seeking out solutions to our problems ourselves, instead of sitting around waiting for somebody else to do it for us.

Helping other people is also not something we’re encouraged to sit around and wait for somebody else to do. When we’re able, we’re supposed to pitch in and do it ourselves. No faraway potentate is seen as our ultimate benefactor. No potentate, that is, except our own, individually identified Higher Power — a Power that never takes a dime from us in taxes, yet provides far greater assistance than we’ve ever gotten from Washington D.C., for all the trillions we’ve sent it.

Just as in an economy based on liberty, an “invisible hand” can truly be said to govern the workings of Twelve-Step programs. Nobody needs to plan, organize, or dictate matters from the top, from the heights of any centralized organization. We are not run by any elites who are presumed to know better than we do. Our leadership always emerges from the bottom up, and is guided not by airy theories but by practical experience.

Busybodies and know-it-alls gain no traction in A.A. None has ever succeeded in taking charge. To outside eyes, this seems nothing short of miraculous. It may also seem miraculous that a ragtag assortment of freedom-loving citizens were ever able to govern themselves in a country without kings, emperors, or any sort of grand council to oversee operations down to the minutest detail.

In A.A., we hold each other individually accountable. And every individual counts. The dignity of each person’s choices is honored, whether for good or ill. In recovery, we come to appreciate that our lives have a value no one else can ever take away, and that — for the sake of our very survival — we must never throw away ourselves. Though I was well on my journey toward a libertarian perspective years before I became involved in A.A., my experience in the program had much to do with clinching my political conversion.

Over the past three-quarters of a century, millions of people’s lives have been saved by their adherence to the principles of Twelve-Step recovery. Those lives bear testimony to the fact that the principles work. If they work to save human lives, they might also help to save the larger human society.

When recovering drunks run across people who labor without the benefit of such help, those who are apparently clean and sober but who are whiny, self-absorbed, irresponsible, childish, over-dependent, nosy, meddlesome, or just plain impossible to get along with, we often remark that they “need a program.” We say this with a smile, but we are serious. We count ourselves fortunate that we have found a way of life that makes our individual lives worth living, and actually feel sorry for those who haven’t. More than ever before, today, Americans need a program. Be they drunk or sober, and regardless of whether they use recreational drugs, a huge number of them direly need to be Twelve-Stepped.

As a nation, many Americans are addicted to the hallucinogen of government aid. They grope their way through their existence under the delusion that, although they’re doing a lousy job of managing their own lives, they have the wisdom to manage everyone else’s. They may not believe that their Higher Power resides a bottle or a syringe, but they just as mistakenly believe that it resides in the state. This, as surely as alcoholism or drug addiction, is a disease that leads to disappointment, despair, and destruction. As we in A.A are also fond of saying, they “need a meeting.”

The next meeting of our local Libertarian Party, or of any similar group of liberty-loving individuals, would very nicely fit the bill.




Share This


Addicted to Flight

 | 

The first five minutes of Flight are gratuitously graphic — and I'm not talking about the plane crash.

The film opens on the tip of a bare breast and pulls back to reveal a naked young woman who stumbles to the bathroom and back to bed, where she dons her scanties and lights up a joint. Meanwhile her lover wakes to the sound of his cellphone and argues with a caller, most assuredly his ex-wife, who is asking for money. He finishes the call, reaches for a glass from the bedside table, and downs last night's booze before taking a hit from the girl's joint. Tired, hung over, and angry at his ex-wife, the man dresses and takes a gasp of cocaine to clear his head and focus his brain. Then he dons his captain's hat. He is about to pilot a plane.

Whip Whitaker (Denzel Washington) is a crackerjack former Navy pilot who knows how to handle his liquor. While buckling in, he orders black coffee from the head flight attendant (Tamara Tunie), then takes a couple of giant whiffs of pure oxygen, much to the horror of his young co-pilot (Brian Geraghty). Fortunately, when it comes to flying a plane, Whip knows what he's doing. Half an hour before landing, the elevator fails in the tail, forcing the plane to nose dive straight toward the ground. Relying mostly on instinct, he manages a spectacular landing and saves almost everyone aboard from what would have been certain death.

Thus begins the dilemma of the film. Whip is a hero, right? The crash was caused by mechanical failure, not by pilot error. In fact, Whip's quick thinking and masterly piloting prevented nearly a hundred deaths. Yet his alcohol level was three times the legal limit. Should he be praised for the 98 lives he saved, or held accountable for the six passengers who died?

With Denzel at the helm, I expected this to be a film about a casual drinker who may have had a glass of wine the night before flying and is unfairly punished because of arbitrary and unbending government regulation. I thought this would be an interesting libertarian study. Instead, it is about an out-of-control alcoholic who still flies jet airplanes for a living. Although the trailers for Flight promise a thrilling disaster movie on par with Airport (1970), the movie is actually a character study more akin to Days of Wine and Roses (1962).

It's a calculated act of aggression, and it turns a gesture of love into a kind of violence, almost like a rape.

Once you realize that's what it is, it is quite good. We see Whip go through all the classic problems of the addicted personality. Disgusted with himself, he pours out all his alcohol (and he has alcohol of every shape and brand hidden just about everywhere). He sobers up for a few days, and then he buys more. He destroys relationships with family and friends. When a drinking buddy decides to sober up, he walks away.

In one unforgettable scene at the home of Whip's ex-wife, his teenage son confronts him and swears at him, telling him to leave their house. Whip is furious. He wants to hit his son for sassing him, but he knows that if he does, he'll be arrested. So he hugs him instead. It's a calculated act of aggression, and it turns a gesture of love into a kind of violence, almost like a rape. It’s also a lie. Pure genius, and for those who have experienced that kind of aggression, it rings frighteningly true. This is a man who knows how to beat the system, with a smile on his face.

What I find most troubling about this story is the fact that Whip's colleagues know that he is an alcoholic, and they do nothing to stop it. I'm no Pollyanna — I recognize that most alcoholics are surrounded by enablers who help them lie — but Whip is putting their own lives in danger. When a nurse looks the other way as an alcoholic doctor prepares for surgery, she may be thinking, "Why should I get involved?" The person on the operating table is a stranger, first of all, and the rest of the surgical team will watch for mistakes. The nurse's own life isn't in jeopardy. It’s wrong, but you can understand it. Yet what would induce a flight attendant to board a plane captained by an inebriated pilot? If he crashes the plane, she goes down with it too.

Nevertheless, research shows that many pilots and flight attendants have problems with substance abuse. Random blood tests identify several pilots each year with alcohol levels above the legal limit, and the FAA has a policy — a policy! — of requiring substance abusers to go through rehab therapy before returning to work. Yes! They are allowed to return to the skies! If you weren't afraid of flying before, you probably ought to be now. The only saving grace is the fact that autopilot controls most flights these days, and the chances of having an inebriated pilot and co-pilot in the cockpit at the same time are fairly slim.

The members of Whip’s flight crew know he's an alcoholic, but they don't turn him in. His girlfriends enjoy getting high with him. His attorneys (Bruce Greenwood, Don Cheadle) are more concerned with winning his case than with protecting the flying public. They will do anything to shelter Whip, and Whip will do anything to get away with what he’s doing. A friend of mine who grew up with two alcoholic parents wisely observed, "The AA confession should be 'I'm an alcoholic . . . and I'm a liar,'" because being addicted to anything always leads to lying. Deception at first, then half truths, then outright lying. Addicts get so good at it! Both weaknesses have to be acknowledged before the person can change.

And then there is his drug dealer, Harling Mays (John Goodman). Harling struts into the scene channeling Wolfman Jack with his dark glasses, goatee, greasy pony tail, oversized bowling shirt, and Rolling Stones soundtrack ("it's just a shot away" of course). Goodman revels in this role. It's probably the most fun he's had since . . . well, since last month's Argo. Goodman seems to love every part he plays, and it's infectious.

Harling is a pharmaceutical distributor who dispenses cocaine with the precision of a medical doctor. He even makes house calls. When the alcohol has created too much of a depressant, he prescribes just the right amount of stimulant to elevate the brain and get it leveled off. He's a pro.

And yes, in case you hadn't noticed, the plane crash itself is a metaphor for the alcoholic. When the chemical "elevator" stops working, Whip goes into a dive and crashes, destroying others in his path. He tries to whip himself into shape, but he can't do it alone. He needs help.

Like Days of Wine and Roses, this film could have become maudlin, preachy, and overlong. But also like that classic film, Flight rises on the strength of the actors who inhabit it, and the ending soars. It's an important film. I just wish Hollywood weren't so addicted to pushing the edge of decency. While that opening scene is important for establishing Whip's character, the nudity is simply unnecessary.


Editor's Note: Review of "Flight," directed by Robert Zemeckis. Paramount Pictures, 2012, 138 minutes.



Share This


Election Day, 1849

 | 

On the afternoon of October 3, 1849, a young printer discovered a man wallowing in a gutter outside Gunner's Hall, an Irish tavern in Baltimore. The man was disheveled and semi-conscious, dressed in soiled clothes that were not his own, and clinging to a malacca cane. The stricken man was Edgar Allan Poe. He was taken to a local hospital, where he remained virtually delirious until his death four days later at the age of 40. One of the most important writers of the 19th century, Poe basically invented the short story and made several publishers rich men. But he struggled his entire life with alcoholism and poverty, never earning more than $300 a year.

Literary historians have long speculated how Poe came to be dressed in a stranger's clothes that day. Poe was poor, but he was always fastidious about his attire. Had he sold his trademark black suit to buy liquor or food? Had he been robbed? No one will ever know for sure.

Recent speculation, however, has turned to a theory that is quite timely considering this election day, in what appears to be the tightest and most contentious presidential race in history: Poe may have been trading votes for drinks. October 3, 1849 was a local election day. "Vote early and often" is a cynical phrase that is often attributed to Tammany Hall and the Chicago political machine, but it did not originate there. Unscrupulous politicians from the East coast to the Midwest would often offer five dollars and a beer to anyone who would vote for them, using the names of deceased residents to vote multiple times. To prevent recognition at the polling place, these repeaters would be induced to change their clothes. Out of money and craving alcohol, Poe would have been an easy mark, and that would explain why he was wearing the stranger's clothes.

On this election day, how many people are acting for themselves, and how many are wearing (symbolically) a stranger’s clothes?




Share This


Beer Battle

 | 

Here in Alabama we beer drinkers are still warring with the state. We won our most recent engagement, however. On May 16, the governor signed a bill allowing our favorite elixir to be served in 25.4-ounce, rather than 16-ounce, containers.

Of course, the goal of the state had been to keep large quantities of beer out of the lower colons of our young people. This assumes a school system that doesn’t teach that 2 times 16 is 32 and 3 times 16 is 48 — both larger than 25.4.

A couple of years back, in 2009, we legalized beers with over 6% alcohol. So we’re definitely making progress.

The opposition filibustered the large-bottle bill, ranting that alcohol had “broken up many families.” Yeah, I guess. So has fried chicken.

“Dear, pass me that drumstick.”

“But you ate the first one, and I want that remaining plump piece of chicken. Here’s a nice, crispy neck for you.”

The drumstick consumer throws the bone of the first — now deceased — drumstick at his “dear” dinner partner. (Not the half-full beer bottle, which she served without a glass.) Obviously, a freshman sociology student could observe this tension brewing for weeks.

And remember, all you legislators, he threw the chicken bone — not the beer bottle. So what’s beer got to do with it? More importantly, what’s the state legislature got to do with it?




Share This
Syndicate content

© Copyright 2017 Liberty Foundation. All rights reserved.



Opinions expressed in Liberty are those of the authors and not necessarily those of the Liberty Foundation.

All letters to the editor are assumed to be for publication unless otherwise indicated.