One of the most salient features of our culture is that there is so much bullshit. Everyone knows this. Each of us contributes his share. But we tend to take the situation for granted. Most people are rather confident of their ability to recognize bullshit and to avoid being taken in by it.
These are the opening lines of a small, undoubtedly overly scholarly book by Princeton University philosopher professor emeritus Harry B. Frankfurt, titled On Bullshit, that P&J have kept close for over a decade in our roles as BS artists and professional wiseasses. And what better time to consult the wisdom in its pages than when we have a president who is lying every time his lips move, and couldn’t tell the truth even if he felt the cold steel of a Smith and Wesson .45 handgun pressing against his temple. (Quick mention to federal authorities monitoring these sort of things: P&J have no knowledge of the difference among Smith and Wesson .45s, Beretta 9 mm handguns, or Glocks of whatever caliber, nevermind Super Soakers, nor do we know where you and your families live.)
The last sentence in Frankfurt’s opening is especially worth looking at, because President Pussy-Grabber’s supporters have not only not recognized or avoided being taken in by it, but have swallowed the steaming BS sandwich he handed to them whole, and while wiping their mouths after scarfing that down, asked if they could have seconds. What these dumb bastards don’t realize is that, as we say here with regularity, the Orange Orangutan wouldn’t walk across the street to piss on them if they were on fire. MAGA this you idiots. You got played by just the type of city slicker of the ilk you pretend to be the sworn enemy. (Oops, gotta go, time for “Hee-Haw” reruns on TV.)
Says the BS oracle in conclusion: Bullshit is unavoidable whenever circumstances require someone to talk without knowing what he is talking about. Thus the production of bullshit is stimulated whenever a person’s obligations or opportunities to speak about some topic exceed his knowledge of the facts that are relevant to that topic. This discrepancy is common in public life, where people are frequently impelled — whether by their own propensities or by the demands of others — to speak extensively about matters of which they are to some degree ignorant.
Who could this possibly pertain to who is a person in power that you and we know? Kim Jong Un? Vlad the Impaler Putin? World’s biggest murdering Turkey, Recep Tayyip Erdogan? Mohammed bin Salam? Some guy who is taking room rentals in his garish, classless, parvenu hotel in DC named Trump’s (Money) Dump? (But a great place for chicks to meet Saudi Arabian billionaires.)
Tell us more. You fah-scin-ate-us, Donald.
Rhode Island VIPs
Phillipe and Jorge have traveled a good deal in our lives, bravely spending time in places that have no New York System hot wieners, Del’s Lemonade, or full of those who are stumped by people speaking English correctly (this excludes the ESL crew, who at least have an excuse).
In these far-flung outposts, we can identify the unique set of individuals who have an unspoken Vo Dilun VIP status, such as artists, musicians and even the occasional politician, believe it or not.
Well if you were someone visiting Little Rhody for the first time and turned on the TV in your hotel room prior to popping a few $10 nips from the mini-fridge and searching for the porn pay-per-view, you’d quickly discern the Biggest Little’s top three categories of VIPs: TV weather people, furniture salesme and personal injury attorneys.
A seasoned traveler might expect to be assailed by “news” shows that included a minimum of six weather reports that cover 15 minutes of less than 30 minutes of air time, overshadowing pressing local news items like a stalled school bus in Coventry, before dashing over to a train wreck in Saskatchewan. (May P&J entertain you with a little joke here? This guy had a tattoo on his penis that said “Swan,” but when aroused it turned into “Saskatchewan” Ba-boom! And we apologize, but not really.)
So after you get past the omnipresent folks who are dying to have a weather emergency, we have the furniture/mattress sales people. If you are going to buy anything you spend one-third of your life on, maybe you should avoid buying it from old men with thinning hair, porn director mustaches and ponytails or from mini-man cartoon caricatures that make the huckster look 30 years younger.
Unfortunately, personal injury attorneys (and they are legion) abound in Little Rhody. Perhaps we should rig up some kind of system for out-of-towners that employs a car they can be hit by and an EMT prearranged on site to get them to the closest hospital, which will have a nurse and lawyer standing bedside upon arrival.
A tip of the beret and sombrero to the owners of the (presumably new) hair shop on Broadway in Newport namedCurl Up and Dye. Doesn’t get any better than that. And we hope they are good, because in our past days, P&J would simply say to our barber, “Give me the number four (all men know that down-to-the-brains look),” a proven chick magnet.
Kudos & Congrats