My Language

NOT FOR SISSIES

Some forty five years ago, when I first became aware of the conspiracy for world domination, took up my sword and shield in the battle for America and sallied forth to arouse others, I discovered two kinds of prospects. Race, sex, ethnicity and education did not seem to matter. The difference between the two kinds cut through them all.

The first kind would tell me that he or she had long suspected something was wrong but couldn’t identify it. Now that I had, everything came into focus and they could. Now they could easily predict what would happen, simply because they knew what had happened before. Even today I can still do that and mystify people, but it is so easy, so obvious, I don’t even think of it as predicting.

Indeed, from time to time I still get messages from people who say that when they first heard me talk, the shock was so great they knew I was crazy, but now that sufficient time has passed they realize that they are crazy too. One lady actually said that. “Guess what? Now I’m crazy too!”

For instance, in the spring of 2001, before Nine Eleven, I addressed the California state convention of the Daughters of the American Revolution and told them who Bush was and what he would do. Many of the Daughters were angered and horrified, but it has all turned out as I said. It was easy to do because I knew what Bush was. I remembered George I saying again and again that we need a “new world order.”

Back there at the beginning was also the period when I was so grateful to be allowed to tell the American side that I would sit patiently like a dumb animal on talk shows while the host dumped on me, hoping he would let me say a few words. Often, they would invite me precisely to serve as an object of ridicule. I’ll do another piece you may find interesting, recounting some of my experiences and what I finally did instead.

The second kind of prospect would listen with half an ear, sometimes less, and remain unconvinced. “Prove it! Prove it!” I can hear one of them shouting. So I would go away and come back with more proof. But I never could persuade them. The proof I presented was never enough, or never enough of the right kind. Or, I had used the wrong language to describe something. I would go away to devise another approach, convinced the fault was mine. If only I could do it right, just right, they would see.

But they never did and I continued to blame myself, wasting precious time. As you can probably imagine, the frustration was intense. Only gradually did the truth dawn that there was nothing wrong with me. There was something wrong with them. Some of them were simply too weak minded or intimidated or covetous to face reality. Others may have been deliberately trying to waste my time.

Whatever the reason, as the truth finally dawned on me, I of course changed my method. Now, maybe once a year, I would stop by for a few minutes to see whether they had made any progress, whether they had recovered from their delusions. Sometimes they had; often they had not. If not, I would cheerfully go my way.

All of this again becomes germane – even more germane – because some readers who are too young to remember it are now writing to complain about my language. They like what I have to say but they can’t pass it along because if their prospects read in my pieces about “el presidente Jorge W. Boosh,” about “Democruds” and “Republicruds,” about “queers” and “faggots,” they will instantly turn off. Indeed, the people who complain are almost turned off themselves. So, why do I use that language?

Literary types may remember (Janet) Taylor Caldwell. At one time, she could have been the biggest selling author in the world, because all her many novels were selling at once. They probably still are. A few have been made into movies. Janet was a staunch believer and a ferocious defender of our Christian civilization.

She was also a prodigious imbiber. Once, at a convention in Boston, the late, great Susan Huck, Ph.D., warned me about a bottle on the mantle in Janet’s hotel room. “It’s white lightning,” whispered Dr. Huck, a world class imbiber herself. Susan was trying to protect me, knowing that although I do enjoy an occasional, adult beverage, I am not at all a competitor.

Sure enough, later, up in her room, Janet poured me a hearty glass from the bottle. It looked perfectly innocuous, like distilled water, but a sip confirmed that it was white lightning indeed. I was able to stash the rest of the glass unimbibed, and Janet did not notice because she launched into a session of truly valuable advice: “Listen to Mamma! Listen to Mamma! Get published!” I did of course, and her memorable review appears on the dust jacket of my first novel, The Highest Virtue. Go to alanstang.com for details.

Janet was once visiting a women’s club. I can’t recall which one it was, but of course the ladies were thrilled to have the world’s best-selling novelist as their guest. Needless to say, she was sipping whisky from a water glass during the visit. One of the distinguished ladies made the fatal mistake of asking Janet what we should do with the Communists after we win the battle for America.

Janet took a long, thoughtful swig from the water glass and replied, “I think we ought to kill the sons of bitches!”

To feel the full effect of this, you need to imagine an elegant, patrician, truly Great Lady, saying it. Yes, it was notoriously unladylike terminology, even an intolerant thought, but it certainly did get the attention of the ladies there assembled. And the point of course is that so does mine. It certainly gets the attention of the people who protest.

Notice that my language is much more genteel than Janet’s. I go out of my way not to use profanity. Of course, I am not a Great Lady. She was and could get away with it. In fact, my language is very carefully honed and directed. It is interesting to note that no one writes to say it is inaccurate, untrue. One of its purposes, admittedly, is to bring its object down by subjecting it to ridicule, by showing it to be utterly contemptible, a literary technique or style that of course has a long history.

So, for instance, the appellation “el presidente Jorge W. Boosh” communicates our awareness that Bush is committing treason by conducting the present invasion of our country across the Mexican border. We know that because if he were to pick up the phone and say, “Stop it at once!” it would stop at once. But he does not pick up the phone and say that. In the latest revelation, Boosh has gone into court to prevent the execution of a Mexican who bragged about raping and murdering two teen age girls. Boosh says the monster is an illegal alien and is protected by treaty.

The appellation also communicates our utter disgust for Boosh’s true allegiance and contempt for the traitor. So, then, if all this is true, what is the problem? The problem is precisely that it is true. It is embarrassing. The people who won’t look at it – won’t face it – can’t. The simple truth is too frightful. That is why the word “faggot” offends them. In my new book, Not Holier Than Thou: How Queer is Bush? I explain that the anxiety such words cause is proof they have been brainwashed. I am not going to explain how for the umpteenth time here. Get the book. Go to alanstang.com.

The same considerations would apply to my characterization of the Communist Broadcasting System's revolting Mike Wallace, whose show I once wrote, as “snot dripping from the nose of a skid row drunk,” and “dog vomit filled with maggots the dog is lapping up.” It was Mike who said at a conference on journalistic ethics that he would not warn a Marine Corps commander of an upcoming ambush, because to do so would damage his journalistic “impartiality.” What else could you call this skunk?

There is still another reason for such inflammatory language. Yes, it infuriates. It is calculated to infuriate the reader and arouse. It is meant to convey the fact that we are not engaged in an ideological discussion here; this is not a university debate. We are at war. Aided by domestic traitors, a foreign power is attacking and invading our country. There has been bloodshed. There have been casualties. I am not talking about Iraq. Iraq is a distant front in the war. I am talking about New York. I am talking about Seattle. We are in the middle of the most dangerous national emergency in our history.

Also, friends, again, I have been writing about these monsters for some forty five years. I know they have been committing monstrous atrocities for some two hundred years. I am tired of being polite. How many more ways can one write about them; how many other things can one say? And what you like to read is now irrelevant.

I said above that what I was talking about all those many years ago is even more germane today. Why? Back then, the conspiracy for world government was more concealed, admittedly harder to see. It was not yet strong enough to reveal itself completely. Today, as the late, great Robert Welch once put it, the conspiracy is necessarily “running naked to the finish line.” Because it is so close, it is easier to see.

Which means that the people who today refuse to see, the quibblers, are more culpable than their spiritual progenitors. They have much less excuse. In mind’s eye now I imagine them, like the ladies at that women’s club, elegantly dressed and coiffeured, cute, little napkins on their knees, eating finger sandwiches, quibbling about exactly how to say it, as if what we’re talking about has nothing to do with them, as if they can choose whether or not to become involved. And they are doing that while actual rapists are breaking into their beautifully decorated meeting room, intending to drag them by their beautifully frosted hair into the street.

So I believe I can reassure the heroes who willingly endure the schizophrenic frustration of trying to convince blockhead fellow citizens that something is fatally wrong in our country, let alone convince them it is bad enough to enlist in the war. I have discovered over more than 40 years in the struggle that if my language were as pristine as Shirley Temple's in her prime, and my usages as contemplative as the Dalai Lama's, these brittle folks would find something else to dissuade them.

It will never be quite right. These are the same people who demand that you prove your point, but however much proof you bring them, it is never enough. They don’t investigate on their own; they don’t follow leads; they expect you to bring the proof to them and put it in their laps, and still they demand proof while a criminal alien or a terrorist is already in the house. But you couldn’t convince them because you didn’t say it quite right. Of course we are talking about the spoiled brat mentality of the typical liberaloid. If one of them caught someone raping his wife, he would reason with him.

I write to you in December, 1944. It is snowing. It is cold. And von Rundstedt’s panzers surround the 101st Airborne at Bastogne. Or, if you prefer, it is 1942, before the Battle of Midway. After the disaster at Pearl, nothing much prevents the Japanese fleet from reaching Hawaii, even the entire West Coast. In fact, in June they will occupy the Aleutians, U.S. territory.

Now it is time for Old Blood and Guts. Now it is time for General Patton. You are part of the Third Army and must get to Bastogne. Did you know that “the speech” George C. Scott rendered so expertly in the film was a sissified version of the speech Patton actually made? I am not going to tell you what he really said, because the General would not want me to. A sublime Christian gentleman, he would have turned seven shades of crimson had any ladies been there to hear him. If you are a man, you can find it yourself on the net.

Compared to all this, I must admit my language amounts to nothing more than timid obfuscation that just beats around the boosh. I apologize. From now on, if you like, I’ll talk more like Mamma. NOT FOR SISSIES