WORSHIPPING AT THE SHRINE OF CHOMSKY
"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
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!"