What an amazing couple of recent expostulations; Al Gore preaching, though some say ham and egging, to the sturdy farmers at the Festival of Hay on the Welsh border and Pinch Sulzberger coming clean in New Paltz, where, despite his tottering company finances, he tore down the drapes surrounding his outlandish liberal views and chewed the carpet publicly.
Mr. Gore was fresh alright, and tart as Frank Cooper marmalade, jetting into England in an arc of greenhouse contrails and landing in a cloud of CO2 emissions from the festival of films at Cannes, where the smoky acetate and the noxious gases given off by the projectors showing his magnum opus, An Inconvenient Truth, left the assembled multitudes bleary eyed and crying out for libations - martinis, screw drivers and double side cars.
But Mr. Gore was in an upbeat mood, glad handing the stolid farmers, hustling the assembled politicos, and garnering fresh presidential kudos from everyone, including embedded US journalists, who praised his vast, seemingly ceaseless talent for whipping a crowd into an Opus Dei sort of frenzy, previously described ad nauseam by Dan Brown.
"There are more than enough people here to change the world," he yelled from a hay bale and was answered by shaken pitch forks, car horns, the honking of rogue unattended geese, and gales of laughter from those watching a local pitchman perform tricks with his dog.
Yet he was able to lay fields of edible grain flat from the power of his swinging semaphore-like arms, his piercing voice and his heated conversation. And some said he just cooked the grain where it stood, making it ready for beer brewing, without the need for malting rooms.
But Al said he couldn't take the credit for this miracle, that it was a result of a continually overworked mother nature, an artifact of global warming, not a direct result of his feverish staccato objurgation, and another signal that the end is near. Some attendees said it was just a parlor trick.
But still, the pundits said Mr. Gore danced a bit, a rare Welsh jig or two - his heavy brogans flying, his pant legs flapping - in sheer delight as he was told of the massive groundswell of liberal support coalescing around his famous visage to the detriment of Ms. Clinton's mien, once the darling and now, it seems, the faded rose of summer in the looming presidential sweepstakes.
Meanwhile, back in New York, Arthur "Pinch" Sulzberger, Jr., addressed the assembled multitudes at SUNY New Paltz, from atop his velveteen box, by the banks of the Wallkill River.
Finally, after years spent hiding from the inevitable, and refusing, in the end, to keep quiet, he dropped all pretense and explained to the students, parents, faculty, staff, CSPAN afficianados, anybody who can read the blogs, Cliff Kincaid, and Lucianne, that he is hearing the drums of faraway places calling.
Oh no, don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Mr. Pinch is destined for an upper body restraint, rubber room and gruel. Nope, he has simply revealed that he is occupying a three-level townhouse in Gary Larsen's Far Side, where, with all the Bill Clinton ventriloquists, Democratic pantomimists, Harry Belafonte soubrettes, Cindy Sheehan impersonators, and nut cases, he is watching the white buffalo roam the barren halls of the amazing disappearing New York Times.
I mean, Pinch, really, but he was firm. And as he noted all the fertile journalistic minds adrift in the sea of the newly graduated, he let fly. Pinch stated that the Times was absolutely right in outing the NSA eavesdropping program on al-Qaeda, it was meet and right to do so, that we are "fighting a misbegotten war in a foreign land," that gays have the absolute right to marry, that immigrants of every kind have a right to start a new life here, a life we are required to pay for, that we should surrender in Iraq, that maybe Bush should be chucked out of office in the way Mr. Nixon was, we ought to give up the war on terrorism and protect the right of women to choose.
But, Mr. Sulzberger was utterly emphatic, and huffed and puffed used his own life as a parable to illustrate the fact that we must concentrate on the "butterfly effect" instead of the large things, and pick up an overturned trash can or aid a stranded motorist - though I suspect they'd better be a liberal or a left progressive in need on a perfectly sunny day in order to qualify for the big limo ride. And we'd better leave the really big assignments to guys like Pinch, the true liberal Nomenklatura and the progressive poseurs stuck in the wire.
Al is coming back from the depths of a depression following a grievous campaign loss and is finding his voice, according to the monotonous journalists employed by the latter. He is banging away about the end of life as we know it because of the very emissions he is pumping out on his endless journeys to tell us so. And like Bishop Ussher, who calculated the beginning of the earth with great accuracy, Mr. Gore can calculate our end of days with an even greater one and knows that the billionth digit of pi is 9.
Poor Pinch is the captain of a sinking ship, finally telling the world that he is the conductor directing the comic political opera which has so biased the reporting in his own newspaper that it has become nothing more than a cheap, hackneyed tin pot for every shabby unproven liberal trial balloon. It is coadunated by plagiarizing reporters, presided over by blind dogmatic editors, who are plagued by utter fiction and clouded by such an absence of facts that the entire enterprise has become a laughing stock to all but its staff, its dwindling number of paying readers and arsonists, who rely upon its purloined volume of newsprint for ready ignition as they go about their nefarious deeds.
While Mr. Gore is now known as Mr. Weary, Mr. Weather or simply, Mr. Inconvenient; Mr. Sulzberger's moniker has morphed from Pinch to Mr. Factless and Mr. Fiction, and finally to Mr. Fard — and its host of associated diminutives; Fards, Fardy and Fardy-o.
So, the newly self-proclaimed liberal editor of a dying newspaper trumpets the questionable science in a movie about a slide-show, acclaimed by progressive critics, assembled by a failed liberal politician noted for histrionics, while re-burnishing the latter's image.
And it all makes perfect sense.
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