“What the indolent elite need is an audience. What they crave is an audience. Without an audience they are mere simulacrums of themselves. Shadow boxers and dilettantes.”

And you are their “Huckleberry!” LOL, and you don’t even know it. Well, some of you do and you still watched the super bowl on sunday.

Found at: Velociworld

The Court Requires Its Jesters

Much ballyhooing from the right over the hatred and racist projection from MSNBC of late. From Baldwin to Bashir to Harris-Perry to unknown tweeters, the cable station has been on a roll. And I understand the vituperation from conservatives for unwarranted claims of racism.

Having poked my nose under a sideshow tent or two, however, I don’t give it much stock. There is no such thing as what we knew in our childhood as News, anymore, anyway. It is show business. It is a roped-off arena of slightly-rancid lard, populated by soulless grapplers; an argle-bargle of nose-biters, nut-pinchers, titty-twisters, hair-pullers, eye-gougers, ear-pullers, nostril-rippers, anus-jammers, and face-spitters. It is what credentialed Ivy-Leaguers perform upon each other in lieu of fisticuffs or pile-drivers.

It is Harvard and Oxbridge on the Mid-South Wrestling Circuit, circa 1953. It is Ed Schultz as Leroy McGuirk. Alec Baldwin as Killer Kowalski. It’s show business with a well-choreographed script, and to see it as anything else is to be, well, the duped. Only they call it the target market these days.

I do not resent MSNBC any more than I favor Fox News. The script is writ, the players know their lines. MSNBC is the current Bad Boy, the guy who clips you from behind with a chair, who thumbs your eye, who farts in your face when you’re pinned. Fox is the perennial Pauline, forever tied to the railroad tracks, crying foul. CNN? They’re the fucking untrustworthy Gypsy, not essential to the plot. Comic relief. Just don’t leave your babies unattended around them. Those Roma will steal them and raise them as pickpockets and grifters. That is CNN’s entire contribution to the scenario.

I don’t believe I have ever been completely, emotionally invested in anything I have seen on film or television since I saw fifty fearsome black savages chasing Jock Mahoney’s Tarzan through Darkest Africa when I was six. It was terrifying at the time. Cannibalism had been intimated. I eventually realized Tarzan always escapes, and I had been played. I was the mark. Think of it that way.

So the court needs its jesters. The script is wrote out, the actors are in place. What the indolent elite need is an audience. What they crave is an audience. Without an audience they are mere simulacrums of themselves. Shadow boxers and dilettantes.

Don’t give it to them. Any of them. I know faux outrage when I see it, and I know a cheap shot to the groin when I see it. Don’t buy into this jester’s performance. Punch will always beat Judy, Judy will always beat Punch. They just want your nickel beforehand. It’s choreography. It’s Esther Williams swimming in the amniotic fluid of our slack-jawed credulity.

Keep your nickel, and cast a jaundiced eye. I watch the news for the same reason I on rare occasion sample a bit of pornography: to experience the state-of-the-art, as dispassionately as I can muster. It always disappoints, of course, but that in itself is a victory. Both media deploy beautiful smiles and pert nipples, after all. Only the credentials and wage scales vary.

Just remember: you are the mark, and Tarzan always gets away. Everything else is fraud and smoke and mirrors. And, of course, that damned nickel they covet. Keep your nickel, and read Pravda if you want anything approaching the truth.

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