Into the abyss
Park Record columnist
“Horse feathers!” — Detective Lieutenant Dundee in Dashiell Hammett’s “The Maltese Falcon”
It’s thick and gooey and sticks to most everything with which it comes into contact. And that pertains to all of its manifestations: as actual excrement from the equines whose paddocks and pastures I wander through out back to the verbal “droppings” left behind by spin doctors in our current presidential administration.
I’ve got a well-tested pair of mud-boots to protect me from the former but have, as of yet, nothing comparable to aid in keeping me from tracking the latest alternative-fact “road apples” into my humble digs.
White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer, the north end of a south bound horse that is most responsible for waste management within the administration has kept the evacuation spigots pretty much wide open: the upside to that being I’ve just recently been able to pull my old hip-high fly-fishing waders out of retirement.
The rate at which the “waters” are rising, however, will more than likely make for a short-lived re-emergence for this particular pair. But not to worry as I’ve got a full set of Neoprenes warming up in the bullpen.
Hopefully, they will keep our head above water until we are forced to call upon float-tubes to get us to inflatable rubber rafts or possibly even Martin Litton-style Dories. Having our “closer,” Noah and his Ark, reactivated from his Nixon-long stretch on the Injured Reserve list, of course, gave us plenty of breathing room.
Kudos to the front office for sending for him as soon as the computer models began showing strength-to-weight ratios in the levees involved to be insufficient to hold back rising waste of the then current density. Of course, now, looking back, we could almost refer to those times as the good old days.
Who knew the Trumpsters were capable of generating such massive quantities of “horseshit?” Oh that felt good! Just the sound of fingers falling upon the keyboard in such a rhythmic fashion brings about its own level of ecstasy. Very few typewritten words can do that.
I love words that can be used as either noun or adjective. Although, I must admit, that the implied secondary usage needs to be further refined on this end. “This beer tastes like horseshit!” Or “That sounds like a bunch of horseshit!” There. That’s better. Practice. Practice. Practice. Somehow, when discussing “relativism,” the word “bullshit” doesn’t quite cut to the chase with this guy.
What I’m searching for here is a usage of the most derogatory implication I can find. These are the Trumpsters, remember, and they can spin even the most innocuous happenstance. Who would have guessed that “Mexico will pay for it” could morph into “WE will pay for it” in such a short timeframe?
I must admit, out of entertainment value alone, I am looking forward to whatever congressional hearings evolve concerning possible collusion between the Trump campaign and Putin’s Russia. That’s the height of cynicism, I know. What can I say? I’m flawed? Whoda thunkit?
Looking back, my all-time favorite TV Miniseries just had to be the Watergate Hearings. I was working an all-night radio show down in the Salt Lake Valley while living in Park City. These were the days of “rip-n-read” news, of printers spewing forth the latest from AP, UPI and Reuters news bureaus worldwide, with bells going off if it were deemed worthy of such.
Being so “in the loop” just added to my voracious appetite for the following day’s Nixon feeding frenzy. It seems like the televised hearings got underway around 7 or 8 a.m. or so Mountain Time. This state of affairs translated into it not being desirable to burn much daylight once I got back into town. This was coffee and couch time!
I’m not saying that hearings are going to happen. This is a formidable administration with a solid majority in both houses. Plus, of course, the spin-doctors will be keeping us dizzy with non-sequiturs and the like. But, whatever, you just know it’s going to be excrement-rich.
One thing is for sure. If it is ever reported that, in response to something on the tube, the “Portly Gray Dude” jumped out of his seat and screamed “horse feathers!” then you can rest assured that that, my friends, should fit comfortably into the FAKE NEWS file.
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and has been an observer, participant and chronicler of the Park City and Wasatch County social and political scenes for more than 40 years.
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