"Why should I think? I just let Noam Chomsky do that for me."
This is the creed of the  slave, no matter how trendy, tittering,
bored-with-life, non-emotional, and "just so" it  dresses  itself
to be.  It is the pose, for example, of the fake intellectual who
slyly  smiles  and  faintly snickers, while subtly broadcasting a
"little hint" that "I am just an airy, floating, mind.  And, I am
glib of tongue.  Therefore I am quite intellectual and not likely
to be wrong."
So there is  a  certain  sub-group  of fancied "progressives" and
"leftists" that are lately taking up the oh-so-fashionable  cause
of labor.  (Yet see  how  some  condone  shoddy treatment of grad
student labor, right in their midst.)
This seems to be the case with "St. Noam", who, from his academic
sandbox, surrounded by  worshipful  acolytes,  purrs and winks at
his followers.  With the breath  of  a  superior  sort  of  smile
hovering  about  his  airy  nothing  of a face, The Great Chomsky
looks  out  on  a  sea  of  worshippers,  all  panting  for their
transfusion:  "I sat 27 feet from the  platform.   I  was  *that*
*close* to the blessed man."
What is the blessed man saying now?  Some good things, it must be
admitted.   After all, if it was all impotent gibberings from Mr.
Special, there could  be  no  new  converts  and, eventually, the
disciples themselves -- the very chosen  ones!   --  yea  verily,
might  even  themselves edge sideways away.  The PROCESS involves
luring them in with smatterings  of the withheld Truth, then once
they're inside the tent the disciples, the converted ones, go  to
"Yes, welcome aboard.  Welcome to the team, the winning team, the
Chomsky team."
And it's like coming in from the cold.  It's so nice and warm and
friendly:  those crisp Fall  nights  at  the  Espresso  Bar,  all
wrapped  up  in mugs of hot chocolate and feeling very special --
*almost* as special as Mr. Special himself.
You don't want to leave all  this, do you?  Remember how cold and
crazy it was out there, before you got with the team, the winning
team, the Chomsky team.
But you -- showing possible suspicious evidence of  links  to  an
oafish  background  --  make,  in  the middle of this warm, fuzzy
somnolence, an intellectual farting  noise:  "OKC bombing doesn't
add up,"  you  dare  to  introduce  into  the  slightly  sad  but
therefore wise tranquility.
They  all look at you.  "It's mighty cold out there, fella," they
seem to say.
But  one  of  them, the kind one, the wise elder statesman, he of
nickname "the vocabulated one", raises  his hand and, with a look
around, implies that mercy and forebearance is indicated here.
"But Brian," says the merciful  vocabulated one, "the Leader has,
in a clever, sub-textual remark, which he delivered  *apparently*
incidentally  and  quite  by  accident at his last talk (at which
talk, I might add, I  sat  just  17 feet from the podium), opined
the opposite.  He (as usual, he is the  only  one  even  remotely
addressing the issue) noted the trend toward 'government bashing'
and  that 'instead of blowing up corporate headquarters, they are
blowing up government buildings.'  Clearly, Chomsky has indicated
that anti-government extremists are indeed  responsible  for  the
Oklahoma City bombing."
The  pressure  from many eyes turns toward you.  "Not planning on
leaving the True Faith, are you?" they seem to ask.
But  you, clumsy oaf that you are ("And a rather nervous fellow."
"Yes, I noticed."), just have  to  ruin your place in CozyLand by
blurting out, "But Goddamnit!  Why can't  Chomsky  just  say  it?
Why does he sneak it in sub-textually?"
Well, of course,  even  the  kind,  vocabulated  one  is  finally
forced, reluctantly, into acknowledging that, "Yes. Blasphemy has
So now you wander in the cold Autumn, with the winds all  around.
"Oh!" you sigh.  "If only Noam Chomsky were to walk by, so that I
could at least warm my hands!"