The People's Cube - Political Satire

[img]/images/Theocritus_Memorial_Library.jpg[/img]

Please post your favorite quotes from and memories of Father Prog Theocritus below.

Father Prog's tale of Nancy Pelosi and Perez Hilton visiting the Rancho de Rio Grande will forever be seared on my brain. I've tried removing it using alcohol without success.

Perez Hilton remakes Nancy Pelosi at the Rancho

Father Prog Theocritus merciless skewing of a liberal troll and then putting him in what he termed "pandora's box" will always stand out to me as revealing the quintessential underlying truth about a liberal's mindset. The poor troll didn't have a chance.................an excerpt from Father Prog at his absolute best:

"Third, you have twice proven that you're a slave to sentimentality, which is the fault of people who loathe truth and run screaming from it. Someone defined sentiment as feeling, and sentimentality as blubbering over a dead donkey.

Now. If you can, address what I said. Because I'm putting you in Pandora's box.

1. Either admit that you spoke in haste and that Kennedy's causing Kopechne's death is not a "tired smear."

2. Prove that I am wrong, and I don't think you can, and I'll apologize.

3. Ignore the point and projectile vomit some more bien pensant tropes.

If you do 1 or 2 you are engaging with reality.

If you do three it will prove what I've postulated for years: that liberalism, as understood now, is the mental disease of arrested emotional development around the time the child is supposed to grow up and take notice of other people in the world."

https://thepeoplescube.com/gulagotroll/ ... t4054.html

This is one of my favorite posts, one that showed Theo's unmatched humor:

Marshal Pupovich wrote:

Father Prog Theocritus wrote:Recently Marshal Pupovich offered himself up for another denunciation. Thinking that he was getting to enjoy it, I yawned and passed on. Pupovich has learned to sail through denunciations like George Stephanolous through a polygraph test; it's like Tiger Woods hitting a par hole. You can admire the professionalism but where's the excitement now?

In an earlier thread Pupovich was talking about a cat in his house:

The cat beast will jump up suddenly and head to my bathroom. As I chased behind to make sure he was not doing talent shitting...

Yesterday morning as I left my ranch house to buy Purina Prole Chow at Wally World in Culo de Pecos, I closed the garage door and noticed a big splash in the middle. It was the biggest splash of bird shit that I've ever seen, and there is no place for a bird to roost above the door to make that splash.

I instantly realized that Pupovich has been teaching birds to do talent shitting. I looked in the sky and saw some birds heading for me, and in a panic, opened the garage and squealed the tires getting inside, and closed the door.

~

"Bruno," I yelled, "By the Weeping Sores and Lesions of Chairman Meow..."

"Theocritus! You promised to quit swearing!"

"Oh shut up, you silly queen. Your mangos are withering. We're under siege! That lousy Pupovich has taught birds to dive-bomb shit. It's going to be like <i>The Birds</i>!"

Bruno quit playing with his toes, looked up with a look no more than usually vacant, and asked, "<i>The Birds</i>?"

"That Hitchcock movie, you dumbass."

And for the last 24 hours my house has been filled with Bruno acting like Tippi Hedren in a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tippi_Hed ... Vietnamese nail salon.</a>

I denounce Pupovich for the antisocial and uncomradely behavior of teaching birds talent shitting. Now I need to get back to shooting birds before they can teach this to other birds and then the whole world will be in danger.

Oh, Pupovich, are you going to get it. I'm having our Many Titted Empress come over to Louisiana just for you with the Screaming Olbermann Head of Mass Sneering Destruction and you'll get to listen to how she, and not his O'liness, was the real winner of the primaries and how she, and now his O'liness, ought to be measuring the White House for new draperies.

You'll pay, Pupovich, you'll pay.

Ah Comrade Theocritus, Father Prog if you will, you have no idea just how much I would love to hear you denounce me just one more time....

This beat-down is priceless:

Pinkie, all that His O'liness ever did was work his look.

That's all there is, isn't there? I mean, why learn things and achieve real things? It's because you EXIST, not that you achieved. Achievement is hard. Our shape-shifting troll, whose screen names change but whose sniveling doesn't, irritated me enough on another thread that I had some fun with him. And absent a reply from him on the other thread I have no more to say and so repeat myself here:

Beaver Bait? I don't know which is worse: trying to pretend to be the Exalted Ronald Reagan or suggesting that you are, er, Beaver Bait. Unless you mean that you're a sapling beside a stream.

Of course Chappaquiddick is not the same as one of the Bush daughters getting an illegal drink (which is not the Bush daughters drunk. This is a canard). Teddy Kennedy was a murderer, oh, all right committed manslaughter, a distinction without a difference, and legalistic nitpicking. The left's stock in trade is false equivalency. I refer you to a comment when you were incarnated as Gipper:

Quote:

So, you're saying that Muslims (because they are Muslim) are fanatical religious zealots who will stop at nothing to kill all of those that aren't members of their group (so, basically Nazis with a crescent instead of a swastika). But then, your solution to opposing them is killing Muslims, and doing it ruthlessly until they submit to your will? I'm savoring the irony.
That will be entered into the sweepstakes for false equivalencies. I chose the Chappaquiddick/underage beer episode to demonstrate that the left specializes in false equivalencies. Since all you have is precious attitude.

Beaver Bait said:

I would've bothered to trudge through your post, but it was just more bullshit than I was able to deal with.
I hope that you didn't press the back of your hand too hard against your forehead and that your sighing didn't bother the neighbor's dog as you rolled your eyes in your precious sophistication.

Ah. Someone got me a Word-a-Day calendar? Hardly. There are things about philology that you ought to know. First, you may knows words through their etymology, and that's wonderful and good fun. I try never to use a word against its etymological derivation but confess that I'm limited to classical words. If it's not Latin or Greek I have a hard time with it. German I don't like. Genosse Pieck, pardon me and I am German.

But second, all words are not subject to the quick study--the vitamin pill--of a word a day. Even A Word A Day. Some words just take living to understand. For one, solipsism, which you do not yet understand, and I suspect that you do not understand hubris either. Reading the definitions of these words will do you no more good than reading the definition of integration by parts. You have to roll up your sleeves and get into it.

(If you can help me distinguish meanings of practical, pragmatic, realistic and cynical I'd appreciate it. I don't think that I'm making a crack by throwing cynical in with the others. I've been working on that group for over 30 years. This is a case where a lexicon is of little practical--see?--use.)


Quote:

Trust me, there, shooter, the concept of solipsism is easily one of the least horrendous concepts I've ever heard of.

That could be the motto of every dictator or serial killer who ever lived. You have no idea of what the word means. If you ever do come to grips with it you will writhe in embarrassment. I suspect though that your psychological defenses will keep you from ever apprehending that word, your mind glancing off it, repressing the self-knowledge that it would bring.

I'm not being nasty here: for you to exist as a fully functioning individual you need to understand what solipsistic means. My informal definition is, "It's all about me!" Is this in any way different from sociopathy? Some quarter of a century ago I had such a boyfriend and to this day I cannot determine where the uncaring, self-referential solipsism ended and where the sociopathy started. I am keenly attuned to the disease. If he had had a sadistic streak or were greedy, he could have been a real monster. Are you beginning to understand solipsism? As it was he was merely very leavable.

The best thing that you can do is to realize that words mean something outside yourself. The major disease of college is incarnated in the matriculation address, where you are told that you are the light of the world. I recall my matriculation in 1973 at Rice--I knew it was bullshit. We were college kids and there to learn. I resented the flattery. And even knowing that at 18 I still had to learn that it's not all about me.

I got a very good education at college, but it taught me nothing about life. I took EE courses for grins and knew as much EE as high-school classmates in five-year courses at state schools, and still knew nothing more about life than they did. College proves that you have put up with four years of bullshit and proves to an employer that you can put up with more if you have to, and that's its major advantage. Grow up.

Your only chance at avoiding a life of impotent rage is subjecting yourself to reality and one of the best ways to do that is not to grapple words and concepts and meanings into whatever pleases you, but looking at them head-on. It's tough. Lord it's tough. I hope that you will believe me when I say that I learned that one the hard way. But eventually, when you are paroled into the big, cold, cruel world you will find that it simply doesn't care about you and your precious ideas or the rubbish that you've heard from professors and in bull sessions.

Life doesn't care about me and my precious ideas either. But since I know that I don't have nearly as far to fall. Because I have fallen.


Quote:

I mean, seriously, what is "reality" for you? Is it something that'll "teach" me to not be a "librul"? Please. I doubt that living in your parents' basement really is the same thing as being a middle-class college student from an economic death zone, like I am, working my ass off to pay for college.

Modern-day liberalism is a temper tantrum. The world should cure it; if the world doesn't, then the world will collapse owing to reality being stretched beyond support. The modern-day liberal is always fuming that the world doesn't correspond to his demands and to make it do so is always regulating, yelling, and passing laws. In other words, a temper tantrum.

I too was a middle-class college student and I worked during the time that I was at Rice. A computer-science labbie. Studying real things, like math, instead of inflated matters of opinion like sociology, or god help me, English. And living in my parents' basement? Hardly. I beg the indulgence of old-time Cubists for the repetition, but here is my house, which I designed, and paid for myself. With money I earned by bowing to reality instead of having hissy fits.


Quote:

You think that I'm not cynical? You think that I like having to deal with wide-eyed True Believers who'd sacrifice their first-born child before raising taxes 0.01% to pay for a poor family's health insurance?

This is callow rubbish. First, True Believers are defined as leftists who believe, against all evidence, that statism works. That temper tantrum again. And your assertion that raising taxes 0.01% to pay for a poor family's health insurance is merely risible. It is the weakest polemic that I've heard in months.

I defy you--and you need to know that defy is not the same word as deny, another part of your ongoing philological education--to give me evidence of what you say.

If you walk up to M. D. Anderson in Houston you get the best medical care on earth, regardless of your ability to pay. If you try to pay for medical care in Canada you cannot get it and you get lousy medical care for the taxes that you do pay. I defy you to give a single convincing argument that raising taxes, even more than your absurd 0.01%, will give better medical care. There is utterly no evidence of it. None.


Quote:

I doubt that kicking & screaming about [Kennedy's causing the death of Mary Jo Kopechne] after 40 years & after he just died is going to kickstart a new investigation.

First, "after he just died" is cheapjack sentimentality. You might learn the difference between sentiment and sentimentality; you would not have said that if you knew it.

I have no desire to start a new investigation. That drunken bum Kennedy may as well have put a gun to her head--the result would have been more merciful than letting her die, of asphyxiation, breathing the increasingly rancid air trapped in the roof of his Olds Cutlass as he slept off a drunk. My charge to you is that Teddy Kennedy, the Lion of the Senate, was a goddamned murderer and since it is demonstrably true (pages of documentation on request), it is not a smear. If you think that an inconvenient truth is a smear, then you are morally bankrupt.

And if you think that murder is ever tired, then you are morally bankrupt in another dimension.

Quit yapping, puppy. Get a real degree. Become a plumber. Better the shit in someone's pipes than the shit that you're paying for at college. On the evidence, though, you might however be able to sue your university for fraud.

Ivan,

That was fabulous. Thanks for posting it. I have something of a different nature that caught my attention as well:

ROCK, there is a slight problem of nomenclature. We're not to nomenclatura yet; wait for it.

I have been channeling Lysenko and I have come up with a theory that is all mine. The universe is not described by string theory; there is not a multiverse. There are no branes. There is no latticework holding the electromagnetic energy of the electrons to keep the universe from blowing up.

There is no dark matter. There is no dark energy.

There is only the Great God Bozo. He who rules the universe. This has been misrepresented as the Higgs Boson, it is really the fundamental particle/wave/latticework of the universe. It inspires and invigorates everything.

It is the God Particle. The Bozon. The reason that we so love Lord O is that he is the earthly representative of the Great God Bozon.



One night in Indonesia, there was an appearance to Barry Sotelo, a true theophany, by the Great God Bozon.

"Barry," he asked, fluffing his red hair, "do you know who I am?"

"Y-y-y-yes, sir. You are my Lord. You are the Great God Bozon!"

"Yes, Barry, and don't you forget it. That's a Bozon Non Non." You can tell that the Great God Bozon is French.

"Why are you here, lord? I'm just here, doing what I always do. Trying to figure out just how much I hate America because it doesn't recognize the wonderfulness of me."

"Because, Barry, you are uniquely positioned. The United States of America will be, in twenty years, populated mostly by my subjects. The bozos. I am king of the bozos, you know. Those of us who spend our time pleasing ourselves, living in the moment, and blaming others for what we did. And being mean just for fun. Oh, and it goes without saying working as little as possible except working a system.

"This has not happened yet, Barry, but it must. We cannot have a serious nation which has been a force for good. We are not serious, Barry. We are everywhere all the time."And this is where you come in. Barry, will you be my Butch of the Day? Butch of the Ten Thousand Days? Barry, will you lead the United States to the position of class envy, exploitation based entirely on politics, theft by government, destruction of private property, and de-facto censorship? I mean, you clean up good, or will when you tame that bush on your head, and I think you're up for the job."

"Yes, Lord Bozon, I will be proud to."

"Good. Then I shall see to it. You will get a law degree and be a professor of constitutional law."

"But I hate the Constitution!"

"No matter. You have to understand it. Do you think that an oncologist pulls up his dashiki and runs shrieking 'Tumor! Tumor! Tumor!" like a little girl every time that he sees a crab-shaped mole? No, he doesn't. So tough it out. Sabotage it from the inside. You think that America could have won WWII if we hadn't had sabotage inside the lines?

"Damn I'm sorry Hitler didn't win. A strong man like that, or like Franco, or Mao, or Pol Pot, or Kim Dong Ugh--you'll see that short little shit in a few years; right now he's he's eating his own shit--does half the work for you. Enough pressure can make a bozo out of anyone. If he won't be a bozo on his own, in the future you'll be able to send him to something which shall arise: Jiffy-Lobo™. You'll learn all about it.

"You'll be introduced into politics by Bill Ayers, who is right now building a bomb to kill people and the bomb will malfunction and murder three of his friends. The government will botch the case and he'll walk. He and his wife will bring you into politics. Where you will learn to do massive voter fraud and intimidation, uh, that's community organizing for future reference, and then, then, the finale."

Barry was breathless. "What is that, O Great Lord?"

"You will be elected President of the United States. Twice. You will be in alliance with the media, who will ignore or explain away whatever you do; will laud your most vicious power grabs and ignore the signs of what you will do. The bozos in America will be fat and happy on the tit--which you will wring out of other people--and so they'll do what you want, with no thought past the next government check day.

"You will be able to persecute the honest, disarm the honorable, penalize success, steal people's life savings, destroy their health care, sue states which try to enforce their borders, and in general be a real, broad-spectrum general America-hating rat bastard.

"And they'll love you for it. Because you'll be cool."

"Lord! This is more than I could have hoped for."

"Well, that's pretty good, Barry, but there is one catch. You have to marry Michelle Johnson."

"Huh?"

"You'll see. Xanthippe is reincarnated in her and I promise you she won't be pleased that you're no Socrates, Barry. Because you're just a cute boy it don't mean you don't pètes plus haut que ton cul."

Here are just two of my submissions where Father Prog Theocritus impacted my life:


He presented this after I "lost it" about the Healthcare bill passed on Christmas Eve. Nanski Peloski called it a "Christmas Present for the American People." She reminded us that we have to pass it in order to see what's in it.


I wasn't very good at my PROG OFF response. In fact, I was terrible. Yet, here is what Father Prog wrote about me:


https://thepeoplescube.com/peoples-blog/pamalinsky-s-breakdown-t5019.html



The fact that he would go to such lengths to respond to me was most touching. It gave me a new view of The People's Cube I had never seen before…a wonderful bunch of darling people who understood my viewpoint. AND, it gave me the courage to write, even though I am lousy at it. Still, for the first time in my life, someone was actually listening to me.


(Hi, Oleg, you were there, too.)


Here's another one that demonstrates the parties he hosted at the Rancho:


https://thepeoplescube.com/peoples-blog/rancho-de-rio-grande-dec-31-t8185.html

Talent shitting.... Those were the days...

Father Prog refers to this site (jessicaswell) in a very early TPC thread. I followed the link he provided. The site is no longer active, but maintains a complete archive of old posts. There, he wrote under the name Theocritus. The following is one post from that site written in Dec 2006. I thought you might find it interesting.

*****************************************

That anile old fool, George McGovern, has risen from his coffin and has thrown up another bull giving us his insight--and reminding us just why we preferred even Richard Milhous Nixon to him.

This was sent me by my priest friend Ed, who makes me wonder as I write. There is much to criticize in Mr. McGovern's writing. First, that he was not smothered in his crib. Second, that he was not put to work at five cleaning out cesspools instead of filling others'. Third, that he does it. Fourth, that it does not go into the byte bucket, assuming that he writes on a computer instead of on papyrus with an eagle's quill. And fifth, that there are people who are willing not only to read this twaddle, but that there are people either cynical enough to publish it or stupid enough to think it sane.

It would take more words than I've inflicted on people in these pages to ridicule the fatuity of this prized peace is asininity, so a few things will have to suffice before I lose my appetite for supper.

[W]e think that the Iraqi government would be wise to request the temporary services of an international stabilization force to police the country during and immediately after the period of American withdrawal. Such a force should itself have a firm date fixed for its removal.
And who would comprise this "international stabilization force"? McGovern and Polk would draw from the very people who are the problem, on the theory that the Iraqis might hate them less. They hate everyone.

Who in the real world, that is the world where governments at least pay lip service to due process of law, would do this policing? The people who voted for the Iraqi invasion in the UN and who are now running from it? The French? We all know their fidelity and perseverance, at least to not washing their bed clothing or bodies, but they might do the trick if we could tell them they could make money with sweet-heart deals for their oil companies Total and Elf. Oh. They've already done that.

Perhaps the Sierra Leoneans? This might give them a vacation from running through the streets and cutting, at random, the hands of strangers who are merely sitting at a sidewalk cafe'.

Our estimate is that Iraq would need this force for no more than two years after the American withdrawal is complete. During this period, the force could be slowly but steadily cut back in both personnel and deployment. Its purpose would be limited to activities aimed at enhancing public security.
Note that this is based entirely on the idea that Big Bad Amerikkka is the reason that they're all a bunch of murdering savages and if we just leave, then they'll get on with the tea party and learning how to eat daintily.

Oh. They already know how to eat properly. They eat with their hands, and it is untrue that they take off their shoes in case they're really peckish. The sit on the floor a lot, and their toilets are on the floor too. They don't use the left hand because that's the unclean hand--they don't use toilet paper, you see. And the really high-class ones, and I have on good, or some, or someone said it was so, authority that there are some of them, eat their sheep's eyes with the thumb and only two fingers. Using a third finger is like farting in church. We must be careful of these points of etiquette lest we not be given access to their very best goats.

By all means. Let's reason with these people, drawing on our immense shared and common values, like life. Oh. They want to die to kill Americans. They said it and did it. Our common love of rights. Oh. Women can't drive in Saudi Arabia and they want a wall to fall on me. I don't like that. Most people I know don't like that. Thank you America. Screw you, Islam.

Then McGovern calls for a retreat because of economic issues. Imagine George McGovern, who never met a dollar of someone else's that he didn't like, arguing for economy. Well, if it will serve to hate America, he's all for any tool at his disposal.

Nowhere in this does this old fool make mention of our weakened stance in the world. Most people learn on the playground that a big boy who won't fight will be scorned and have rocks thrown at him. Secure, as always, under liberties McGovern does not value because he's too dense to know where they come from, he thinks that they don't need protecting. But he should know better: he was a B-24 pilot. Is he evil or just one of those people whose minds are utterly rotted out by their self-importance?

It is one thing when a trust-fund brat spends himself into the poor-house and quite another when a fool makes policy spending my patrimony, patrimony paid for me by men and women braver, stronger and wiser than I am and so much more than McGovern that he has no more idea of their grandeur than an ant does of quantum theory. Over and over the Muslims have sneered at our inability to defend ourselves--and it is just that. The Muslims know that we are encumbered by useful idiots like McGovern. We can, but won't. That's worse than can't.

It gets better, if you have a taste for dumpster diving. Just when you thought that old jackass couldn't rise back on his hind legs and let fly with another earth-shaking, jaw-dropping fatuity, he comes up with this:

It would benefit both Iraq and the United States if we were to pay for this force. Assuming that a ballpark figure would be $500 per man per day, and that 15,000 men would be required for two years, the overall cost would be $5.5 billion. That is approximately 3 percent of what it would cost to continue the war, with American troops, for the next two years. Not only would this represent a great monetary saving to us but it would spare countless American lives and would give Iraq the breathing space it needs to recover from the trauma of the occupation in a way that does not violate national and religious sensibilities.
Where do these numbers come from? Did someone put crystal meth in his Dentucreme? Perhaps it's advanced senility, and perhaps that sound of crackling I hear isn't the trees in the frost but the blood vessels bursting in his brain. I will not call it a mind. Recall that an elephant has a larger mind than a man but is not smarter than a man, and the Elephants turned out in November haven't proven themselves to have parts of their brains that function particularly well either.

I did check his numbers, and he's only 8.68% off, which is order of magnitude of an order of magnitude less than he's ever been off before. I bet he hired an intern, or a fifth grader with an HP calculator, to do that bit of arithmetic. Which he doesn't in general like because facts make his head hurt. Oh. But these aren't facts, only wishes. To-wit:

A good landman may make $500 a day. This does not count travel, nor expenses, and despite my comments on a Ford Expedition, I rather think that they are less expensive to run than, say, real armored vehicles. (Although a case could be made for having Junior Leaguers in SUVs block the doors to the mosques and then go shopping in the al-HEB while al Qaeda inside misconfigures the bombs which blow up taking them to their 73 virgins, who all look like Helen Thomas who probably is one. After all, who'd, well, I'll stop. Not even Slick Willie. No, I really will stop.)

And of course let's never violate Iraqi "national and religious sensibilities." Mr. McGovern, the entire turmoil of the Middle East is the war between the Sunnis and the Shi-heads, who oddly enough are the less poisonous of the two, and my reservations about the war stem from their utter hatred of each other and what I perceive as the impossibility of settling their differences short of blowing them all up. I'm not advocating it, mind, but if a few very large and hot bombs were let loose over there it wouldn't ruin my day.

Another dip into the well of lunacy:

Ethnic and regional political divisions in Iraq have been exacerbated by the occupation, and they are unlikely to disappear once the occupation is over.
The reason that the conflict was suppressed was because--listen carefully to Theocritus now--Saddam Hussein shot everyone who disagreed with him. Got it? Once a year he would call people into a meeting and harangue them. And, pour encourager les autres, he would call one or two men from the audience and shoot them in front of the assembly. Who decided that they would be very nice to him after that and let him or his sons have their women if they so chose. And they often did. Remember the rape rooms? The abattoirs? The holes in the floor leading to machines which shredded people directly into dump trucks?

But once the AmeriKKKans leave, they'll be serving tea sandwiches to each other and reading Wodehouse on the lawn while Geoffrey and Nigel play a smashing round of croquet and Prunella, an accomplished pianist, plays light airs on the piano-forte. Scones, any one? Treacle with that?

To the policing of Iraq, and to its civil order, which a modern, liberal (in the good sense of the word) state has no idea of, but the most vicious people on earth evidently do.

Inevitably, [local militias] mirror the ethnic, religious, and political communities from which they are drawn. Insofar as they are restricted each to its own community, and are carefully monitored by a relatively open and benign government, they will enhance security; allowed to move outside their home areas, they will menace public order. Only a central government police and respected community leaders can possibly hope to control these militias. America has no useful role to play in these affairs, as experience has made perfectly clear.
The South Dakota sage assumes it, and it will be so. We go, a government that he likes arises. This wonderful thing takes on its own life out of the dreams of Mr. McGovern and his partner in fatuity Mr. Polk. Who evidently makes a living writing this utter $hit. If this is sensible writing, a Big Mac is chateaubriand with sauce bearnaise and a hundredweight of truffles, white ones if you prefer. And strawberries dipped into champagne on the banks of the river by Sebastian Flyte and offered to Ryder while Aloysius the teddy bear looks on benevolently, the boats being poled down the river, and dons discussing just when the dual number went out of favor in Periclean Greece and Cockneys touching their forelocks, muttering, "Guvnor," and stepped into the cloistered arches in deference to the passing dons in their mortarboards and worn black gowns.

This is a jape at sanity, wishes conjured up and thought to take shape and substance by the fact that he wishes them. This is psychosis.

It is also deadly because muddle-headed people will look at it, and read every sentence, carried away by each one, following the words with a dirty fore-finger, their lips moving, never bothering to try for the sense of it all, and finally, think they understand it when they have sense only that the grammar is not actually bad.

"Hey, Lem, he ain't said 'ain't'! Must be purty eddicated!" Actually I do Lem a disservice. He'd have more sense. Only a parlor pink could be this silly. (Type "this" while angry and in a hurry and see what bad muscle memory gets you.)

The style is appalling, the writing leaden and didactic, and condescending in that way that only an old liberal can manage from always having been insulated from his foolishness by America's greatest strength: our seemingly endless ability, born out of strength and kindness, to fail up.

Why does Iran need an atomic bomb? It has a better ally in George McGovern. That silly, smug, smirking old woman, that pettifogger, strainer at gnats, swallower of camels, squinty-eyed fool. That condescending nitwit with his head so firmly up his a** that it takes a proctologist for a photo-op.

Father Prog Theocritus:

"I have noticed that some of the younger comrades here are not sufficiently imbued with the spirit of Progressivism. All of us older comrades here are Made Progs and in a moment of generosity I am going to tell you how to become a Made Prog.

There are reams of sodden liberal pieties. It's for the children™! Affordable health care™! Hope and change™! Global warming™! We just need to understand the people who want to kill us and then they won't want to kill us.

It's all utter rubbish of course and means nothing. I can pirouette, just like dear Raht Emanuel, on a dime, whenever polling shows that I'm losing traction on any issue which might lead to me thinking that my worthless, meaningless life is worth something because here's a chance that I get to tell people what to do and feel important.

I'm the most realistic of liberals because I know that I have an utterly meaningless life. I don't do anything for anyone except express my views, which no one really wants. I don't work, except to steal. I don't talk, except to lie and calumniate. And everything that I do is aimed toward the idea of making me a more splendid and perfect prog. I'm the proggiest of progs because I have the least cognitive dissonance between my acknowledgement of my worthless life and my complete willingness to lie, cheat, and steal to pretend otherwise.

So, for all you newbies out there, listen up. Here's the secret of being a Made Prog, given to you by your dear Dyadya Theocritus:

Any questions?

This 2008 letter written and signed by David was recently mailed to me by Private Pravda, who was then quickly field-promoted to Marshal Pravda.

The subject here is the purchase of a new computer for one of our esteemed members, so that she could continue posting on the Cube. Many of us chipped in and Theocritus was in charge of the operation.

The letter shows his unique style of doing business. Consider also that his secretary was made to type it to his dictation.

Father Prog has been released to the ether....


LONG LIVE FATHER PROG!!!!