A fortnight or deux hath passed since our last installment of “Fridays with Peggy,” for one must endure days of insomnia and procure a boat-ship‘s worth of les stimulati — what they in the Scientific Trade know as Amphet-a-Mines — to pen an adequate Noonington critique, and it hath taken many a seven-day to locate a sufficiently inventoried Medick. Let us not waste Reagan’s dear time today, then, to reach the so-called “heart” of the matter. In today’s Opinion-Editorial for the plutocratic Wall Street Journal banking pamphlet, Mme. Noonanshirehobbit discusses the Africkan who now controls the military, and other less important levers of power, of l’Empire Amerique. Mme. herself flew on a mechanical falcon, or Aer-Plane, to attend the Africkan’s coup. And once she veritably boarded the Aer-Plane, it was as if she had in fact veritably been transmitted by Iehovah to the Ebon Heart of Rhodesia — for she found herself surrounded by even more Africkans! How didst our Princess escape this JUNGLE?
I. High In The Sky, Toward Heaven, Among The Africkans — What They Wear — Their Language — Are They Monied? — Fear Of God — &c.
OK now, just so you people know what you’re in for, the subhed of this column is, “And what 4-foot-tall Americans learned.”
And Peggy’s first sentence: “It was like ‘The Canterbury Tales.'” Necessary extrapolation: “… but with Africkans.”
Usually Africkans run from Peggy Noonan, as she always tries to touch them to see if God is in their skin. But on an Aer-Plane, there was no escape from Madame:
That’s what it was like last Saturday, in LaGuardia Airport, on the shuttle to Washington packed full of people going to the inauguration of President Obama. A handsome, affluent black woman in first class—fur hat, chic silver jewelry—laughed on a cell phone as a businessman—tall, black, middle aged—hurried down the aisle in black overcoat and Burberry scarf. A young man in slouchy jeans and dark watchman’s cap, iPod buds in place, nodded, in coach, to the tune in his head. Two young white men in beige cowboy hats and grey fleece jackets came on board. Where you from? “Montana!” they said in unison. A boy, 10 or so, learning-impaired, sat with his grandmother. Where you from? I asked him. Shyly: “Detroit. Kentucky.”* Middle-aged and older black women in their proud, broad-brimmed hats sat primly, purses clutched on laps. A young black family all in jumpsuits posed for pictures. An air of great sweetness. The tender way people laugh too loud when they’re a little nervous, and excited, and know they’re part of something and it’s big.
Surely, Madame, the “people” chortled and conversed rather audibly during the in-flight film viewing as well? Madame, there is so much to learn about the Africkans.
II. Entre Capitol City, The Plains, The Tribe, The Leader of Spells — How The Africkans Weathered The Non-Native Elements — The Tools & Instruments of Mob Control — Warring With The Kingdom Of Animals — &c.
Some of the Africkans were quite monied, ironically; many were able to afford the finest of furs, perchance acquired from a Trade with the French trappers along the St. Lawrence.
This is what you saw. Knit caps, parkas, plaid scarves, face warmers, hoods up, braced against the wet cold, flags on light posts, security tents, motorcades, police vans, checkpoints, flashing lights, people hopping from foot to foot when crowds slowed and they had to stand still. Stately African-American women in sweeping mink coats. A friend, a canny social observer, said, “The antifur people aren’t going to take them on!” I laughed and realized yes, PETA just took one on the chin. Mink wearing will be safe in the new era.
It is important that every Patriot of America memorize, by rote, this entire paragraph.
III. Sprinting Through The Waste In Mankind’s Finest Transport — A Due Recompense — The Blanket Of St. Augustine — The Triumph Of Capitalism — The Paragraph Of Unnecessity — &c.
Four days ago, your Wonkette’s interest was piqued with this helpful e-mail from operative “David:”
You’ve got to see Chris Matthews tonight…..Peggy Noonan is one of his guests, and is just as jam packed with insanity as her columns. She just called this a “street inauguration” and went on to say that traffic was so bad, she had to get to the MSNBC tent/platform/whatever by RICKSHAW.
It made much sense to your Wonkette that Peggy Noonan would, within a densely packed horde of dark people, suppose that she was actually in British Calcutta around 1890. But the image of Madame being raced around Washington in a rickshaw was simply too comical for us to think about such things as, say, finding this clip on YouTube.
In today’s column, however, Peggy confirms this story, one that she has likely told her imaginary friends several times:
The traffic was so bad, and so chaotically handled, that everyone had a story. Mine: Stuck for more than an hour near the Mall one night and late for an appointment, I jumped out of a car and hailed an open-air bicycle with a backseat. The driver threw a blanket on me and began to pump the peddles. “What is this called?” I shouted as we raced around limos and town cars. I expected some politically correct name like Energy Saving Mobile Apparatus. He looked back at me quizzically. “A rickshaw!” We got there on time, 15 blocks in four minutes, and like a happy capitalist, the driver, gauging the moment, the need and the competition, opened bidding at $25. I was grateful to pay.
Ah, what a delightful weekend in the Colonies! And the Africkans — how pleasant they were. So wonderful. The Best People! Are they, by any chance, available for purchase?
* — One would struggle to find even an esteemed professor of English who could explain these sentences three.