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Mark Meed

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When University Makes You a Moron, Demand a Refund

Wednesday, October 26th, 2011 - by Mark Meed

Much has been written about the various “occupy” movements that have been sweeping the country, a lot of it unfairly focused on students defecating on cars, flags and a variety of other inanimate objects — when not copulating in plain view following more or less the same guidelines. The naysayers and fault-finders have also pointed out the anti-Semitic rants, the “F*** the Troops!” signs, the profusion of subtle messages such as “Workers Unite, End Capitalism, Eat the Rich, Kill Your Parents, Write Bad Checks” and the unnerving presence of at least one head on a pike which one can only hope is in effigy.

These isolated events (using the MSNBC definition of “isolated” which is: “pretty much anywhere you look”) should not distract us from the larger message, which is “yes we are devolving into Piltdown Man at an alarming rate, but we have a darned good reason!”

It is not as if the students doing this socialist pole-dance want to be poster-children for civilizational decline. In fact, those who squeezed in a medieval history course between the “Transgendered Communists of Color” prerequisites would be the first to acknowledge that a short, brutish life lived in a hut constructed out of cow pies and straw is not to be desired. But these same scholars will be the first to tell you that it’s the system that has turned them into the eat-your-granny primitives we see before us.

The “system” in question is a malevolent stew of Judeo-Christian morality and “rich-get-richer” laws in which people who borrow money (“debtors”) are expected to repay their “debts” to their “creditors”. The “creditors” in this instance are rapacious bankers who misrepresented student loans as free gifts from the unicorn god and thus duped a generation of Lesbian Studies graduates into life-long bondage.

Okay, even if you don’t accept the unicorn god scenario (and I make it even money half the protesters would), the students have a point: Who knew you couldn’t fork over a hundred grand for a B.A. in Philosophy, hang a shingle right after graduation (“Metaphysical conundrums solved while U wait”), and not pay off your loans in under a year? Who knew, being a newly credentialed philosopher, you couldn’t sway the bank manager with an air-tight treatise on why the loan didn’t objectively “exist” in the first place? Who knew that the assurances of your Feminist Environmental Marxist Studies professor that all the bank managers would either be dead or in camps by now might prove a hair premature?

You didn’t, Mr.Mowgli wannabe, that’s obvious. And you should have, and thereby hangs the solution. You don’t know anything of value, what you think you know is wrong, and the institution that was supposed to correct this lamentable situation is six figures richer for the four years you just squandered. Seems to me somebody owes you a refund. Seems to me if you could avoid partying away that refund in opium dens and titty bars on the way to the bank, that would make the student loan problem go away in a hurry.

In support of your suit I propose heading down to Wall Street with my own bull-horn and leading a chant thus (the obligatory repetition of each line — aka the freak chorus — included for effect and because I hope to get paid by the word):

To the greedy, fat-cat university administrators …
To the greedy, fat-cat university administrators …

Give us our money back or we’ll poop on your cars!
Give us our money back or we’ll poop on your cars!

We will drum ceaselessly and sing atonal dirges …
We will drum ceaselessly and sing atonal dirges …
(Some will start drumming and singing, who could have seen that coming?)

We will have sex in public places on campus.
We will have sex in public places on campus … even more than usual

We will put your heads on a pike, symbolically of course
We will put your heads on a pike … what was the rest of that?

After four years in your hallowed halls we are clueless
After four years in your hallowed halls we are clueless

We have no clue about basic economics
Wait, it’s the law of supply and … oh I don’t know

We have no clue about politics or history
We have no clue about politics or history, especially the part that happened in the past

We are so clueless and robotic …
We are so clueless and robotic …

That we will even repeat admissions of our own ignorance with no discernible comprehension
You’ll have to break that into smaller sentences dude

So, give us our money back would ya?
So, give us our money back would ya?

You have it, we want it
You have it, we want it

You know the drill
You know the drill

Hell, you taught us the drill
Hell, you taught us the drill

Your chickens … have come home to roost
Cluck, cluck, cluck

At this point I anticipate we will all find the closest prostitute (short toddle I expect), crown her “Reason”, and march on Columbia with a united heart and an arm full of sharpened stakes. The experience will be all the pleasanter for the fact that most of the marchers can’t walk and sing at the same time.

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SherwinWilliamsGate: What Did Perry Know About the Painted Rock and When Did He Know It?

Wednesday, October 5th, 2011 - by Mark Meed

The latest answer to the ongoing question of how much more desperate and cynical the mainstream media can become can be found on the pages of the Washington Post in a piece entitled At Rick Perry’s Texas hunting spot, camp’s old racially charged name lingered. This towering work of investigative journalism concerns itself with a racially charged rock, the precise timing of when and how it was painted over — all over a quarter of a century ago — and the likelihood Rick Perry drove past it at least once without immediately leaping out with a jack-hammer in his hand. This is all based on the unimpeachable recollections of mostly anonymous people, whose memories of road-side slabs from a couple three decades ago are necessarily sharp as a tack.

Now, the more churlish among us might observe that the black community (or at least its self-appointed advocates), blighted by generations of failed progressive policies and currently looking at an unemployment rate north of 16%, might have bigger fish to fry than this unsuccessful excursion through Governor Perry’s dumpster, but this underestimates the capacity for selective outrage in some quarters and the limitless ability of the Left to process garbage.

Other wags might suggest that Perry could have made this all go away just by planting the meme that it was Jeremiah Wright’s handwriting on the rock. (Make no mistake, Reverend Wright has no history of reluctance to either use the N-word or leave a trail.) Minimally it would have introduced two very unfamiliar elements into the WaPo story preparation process — fact-checking and rigorous research. Given the alien nature of such practices the authors may well have thrown up their hands and spiked the story.

This would, after all, be the same maw of forgetfulness into which Barack Obama’s twenty year association with Wright’s church was hurled circa 2008. Ditto Obama’s depiction of his grandmother as a “typical white person” and other light classics of kumbaya tolerance. However, unlike offensive rocks in a remote patch of west Texas that were painted over some time early in the Reagan presidency, it is still considered ungentlemanly to bring such things up.

It’s probable the authors (who rumor has it have taken to adopting nicknames like “Scoop”) had great expectations of explosive, campaign-busting revelations rather than the squib they actually produced. Who knows, maybe somewhere between lingering over the wine at dinner and rehearsing acceptance speeches they were already roughing out the book version:

All the Governor’s Rocks

“Governor, they found the rock.”

Of all the calls Perry never wanted to get at 3:00 AM, this had to be the worst. Better to learn that Austin had been reduced to a glowing slag-heap than to receive “the painted rock call”.

Groggy but still canny enough to realize the phone might be tapped, he played dumb while he collected his thoughts:

“What in the hell are you talking about? What rock? Do you know what time it is?”

“The N-word Head rock, Governor.”

Oh Lord in Heaven, not the Imperial Wizard Crypto-Racist Southwest Politician of the Year Plaque, awarded personally by Robert Byrd, in full robes no less. Think Rick, think!

“Are you talking about that stupid sign at the hunt camp, the one we painted over, then flipped?”

“Yes Governor. Evidently if you turn the rock back over and look at it at an angle of 20-40 degrees off the perpendicular you can still see the N-word.”

Damnation! He had told his people not to cheap out on the paint. Two coats, they couldn’t understand two coats? Even strokes, put down drop cloths first, all ignored! How was he expected to restore racial purity to an unsuspecting nation if his minions couldn’t follow simple instructions?

“It was the Post wasn’t it?”

“Yes sir, they are relentless, especially the ones on the roadside artifacts beat.”

“Who in the hell gave them permission to turn stones over on private property?”

“There’s no evidence they did, governor, otherwise they would have published a picture of it as opposed to those really impressive stock photos. But they did talk to seven people … “

“And one of them turned it over?”

“No, but they do have near photographic memories of the 80’s, and dispute your version of when the rock was painted and/or turned over. I think they might be looking for a plea bargain.”

Perry stared hard at the phone: PaintGate and TurnoverGate. Fighting the panic clutching at his chest, he croaked out a final question:

“So, they haven’t done any digging under the rock, say 10-15 feet down, or done any snooping around the barracks, um, I meant the camp?”

“Not yet Governor, but an outraged population is demanding a full investigation on the strength of what they’ve already found.”

Perry hung up the phone, and, almost involuntarily, shook his fist in the air:

“Damn you Washington Post, and your almost certain Pulitzer prizes! You’ve just crippled a nation today!”

In the fantastical world of such people they are already collecting royalties.

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