Deep Thoughts, by Peggy Noonan
As usual, Peggy's thoughts will be in maroon, while the authentic Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey will be in blue.
Today's column starts with Peggy having to make a campaign speech in some godawful midwestern town. But don't ask her which one -- she was too drunk to focus on details like that. One night during the past campaign I made a speech at an annual county GOP meeting in Pennsylvania. I can't remember the name of the county or where it was exactly; I was there at that moment of early darkness when Pennsylvania is New Jersey and New Jersey is Ohio: it all looks the same. There are trees and highways.
The memories of my family outings are still a source of strength to me. I remember we'd all pile into the car - I forget what kind it was - and drive and drive. I'm not sure where we'd go, but I think there were some trees there. The smell of something was strong in the air as we played whatever sport we played. I remember a bigger, older guy we called "Dad." We'd eat some stuff, or not, and then I think we went home. I guess some things never leave you.
Peggy tries to give her speech, but nobody cares! Damn those Republicans in that unknown county in PA for failing to appreciate Honorary Team Leader Peggy! I was introduced at a little podium and began to speak and the people in the back continued their racket. I made some jokes to get them laughing and draw them in to my remarks, but the roar continued.
If you're ever giving a speech, when you start out, act nervous and get mixed up a little bit. Then, as you go along, get better and better. Then, at the end, give off a white, glowing light and have rays shoot out of you.
Mrs. Arlen Specter feels sorry for Peggy, and teaches her a magic word. The senator's wife leaned toward me and explained, consolingly, "You didn't know, but when the crowd won't stop you have to go 'Ssssshhhhhhhh.' It's the only thing that works."
If you're ever shipwrecked on a tropical island and you don't know how to speak the natives' language, just say "Poppy-oomy." I bet it means something.
Peggy is so impressed by the power of "ssshhh!" that she dreams of shushing the world! I want to say to Bob Jones III, "Bob, meet Buddha."
Whenever I hear the sparrow chirping, watch the woodpecker chirp, catch a chirping trout, or listen to the sad howl of the chirp rat, I think: Oh boy! I'm going insane again.
Peggy then orders everyone to be quiet and like the idea of Condi Rice as Secretary of State, if only because it will make people in other countries know that we don't discriminate against the bucktoothed. In every U.S. embassy and consulate in the world very soon, non-Americans will walk in to see two things: a picture of the American president and next to it a picture of the young black woman who is this nation's secretary of state. They will notice this, and consciously or not they will think: This truly must be some kind of country.
I guess what I'm looking for in a vacation home is a place where people will leave you alone, but you don't have to leave them alone.
It all goes downhill from there. The Bush cabinet is getting very Bushian. That sends a clear message. But you don't always want to send a clear message. Sometimes you want to confuse things. Sometimes you want to give an unclear message to the world so that it will sit down and scratch its head, in silence.
Tonight, when we were eating dinner, Marta said something that really knocked me for a loop. She said, "I love carrots." "Good," I said as I gritted my teeth real hard. "Then maybe you and carrots would like to go into the bedroom and have sex!" They didn't, but maybe they will sometime, and I can watch.
The criticism of Ms. Rice has been fascinating. Her critics need to sit down and have a Coke, as Bob Dole said. I remember how, in college, I got that part-time job as a circus clown, and how the children would laugh and laugh at me. I vowed, then and there, that I would get revenge.
Peggy tells the CIA to shush, since they just aren't behaving fictionally enough. The strangeness and immaturity of the resigning CIA officials' complaint--that Porter Goss's Hill staffers, new to the agency, had been rude to them--was best captured by Cliff May in National Review Online. May said: Would James Bond whine that Moneypenny had been rude to him? Would he run to Q and say, She got in my face, she was brusque, boo-hoo?
I don't think so. I think he'd suck it up and have a moody drink. I think James Bond would look at the members of the American intelligence and say, "Ssssshhhhhhhh."He was a spy, all right, and he knew it. He would walk into a room and people would go, "Who is that guy, a spy?" He'd laugh to himself, maybe pull out his gun and show it to the person, to kind of impress him (but not to show off). Sometimes spying was dirty work. Sometimes he'd kill a guy, then paint a clown face on his face. Nobody said he had to do that, but he did it anyway. So, dirty work.
Peggy concludes by saying that the Corner kids (well, she doesn't mention them by name, but we know whom she means) should just SHUT THE HELL UP about Arlen Specter, because we can always kill him later if he doesn't do what we want -- and anyway, some of us have monster hangovers, and we could use a little quiet.
2:12:37 AM |
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