The Schemata of Bullshit

Dear George,

It really burns me! Some poetess claimes you are making war on language. She seems to forget that the function of poetry is to do just that, and by that criterion you are our poet laureate. She accuses you of this assault because you lie a lot. In making this charge she displays an appalling lack of understanding and appreciation of the craft that goes into the construction of a well-turned lie.

A pile of bullshit is more than just a randomly plopped pile. Rather, it is a carefully constructed, structure of layered turds that is a wonder to behold for those who are able to plumb its depths. Each turd contains within it a toxic gem that deadens the intellect and reduces the individual to a passive lump of clay that can be molded to any shape the State desires.

You recently dumped a load that is to politics what da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is to art, a masterpiece. You were giving a rousing defense of the criminal activity of our telecoms for which you are seeking retroactive immunity, which the House is resisting. So it was that you spoke as follows:

Now the question is, should these lawsuits be allowed to proceed, or should any company that may have helped save American lives be thanked for performing a patriotic service; should those who stepped forward to say we’re going to defend America have to go to the courthouse to defend themselves, or should the Congress and the President say thank you for doing your patriotic duty? I believe we ought to say thank you (emphasis mine).

Tears blur my vision every time I read that. What a wondrous pile of turds! What a work of art!

Let’s study the schemata of this pile and see just how the turds are arranged. You waste no time in laying your foundational turd, save American lives. This is the base upon which the remainder of the pile will be built. Right away, you establish and either/or dichotomy. If you don’t want to save American lives, then it follows logically that you are an unfeeling brute who wants to waste them.

Upon your foundation, you next lay the turd of patriotic service with its odour of Christian service because just as we are expected to serve God, so are we expected to serve our country because our God is a tribal God who Blesses America, and anyway, who wants to spit in God’s face by holding our patriotic telecoms responsible for their criminal behavior?

This is followed by one of your subtler turds, stepped forward. This little sweetheart reeks of the robust masculinity that is ready to step up to the ramparts and do its duty to God and country regardless of the consequences (as long as it is immune from prosecution). This is followed by the complementary gem that completes the couplet, defend America, a tiny turd that evokes images of the Greatest Generation storming the beaches of Normandy, even though the only thing stormed was a collection of turgid telephone conversations and equally dull emails.

Next, you turn to allusion when you speak of the courthouse, with its evocative imagery of the small-town square dominated by a turreted courthouse that is the repository of all that America hold dear—litigation

Then you top the pile with that eternal winner, patriotic duty. It is this little turd that makes patriotism what Dr. Johnson called “the last refuge of scoundrels.” The phrase stirs the testosterone with its cry for blood and destruction. In its name, populations are slaughtered and countries devastated. Duty, George, is the turd that destroys.

So I say to this poetess, see! George doesn’t war on language, he embraces it and makes of it a cudgel with which he is leading to American people to new heights of glory. Honor him; don’t revile him. He is one of the immortals.

Your admirer,
Belacqua Jones