Pagin' the New Limboviet Man!

Dear Dr. Bones,

Today’s specimen of pajamathink, graciously outgassed by Neocomrade (Fourth Class) J. X. Lileks, raises the old issue between us of whether even some future perfection of Party-an’-AEIdeology wombschoolin’ and Niederdümmung can ever hope to produce the ideal neolemmin’ -- The New Limboviet Man, as it were -- who really and truly believes such stuff before settin’ out to talk the rest of KSPAC into belief.

You have pointed out cogently that a neospecimen like NC4 JXL is but a hired hand vis-à-vis the real Shockers an’ Awe-ers of self-neotericity, in this case Freelord Roger, Kiddiemaster Padschama.[1] "Why," indeed, "should a paymistress care whether or not her operatives believe in the operations that they are financed to perpetrate?"

It is a valid question, Dr. Bones, by which I mean, partly, that it is NOT a rhetorical question, and therefore not one to be posed in that "Hey, betcha can’t answer this one!" tone of voice of yours.

The general answer is Zipf’s Law , which you may have heard of under the dubious rubric of "the principle of least effort." Wally Wombschool havin’ been hired to flog Coca-Cola, it is easier for the poor lad, not the brightest bulb on anybody’s Exmas tree, to hold with full subjective sincerity that Coke is better than Pepsi. ‘Objectively’ better, even -- though ’twere wiser not to open a can of worms by going into Master Wally’s Wombschool Normal U. notions of what objectivity is. This impeccable (?) honesty is compatible with the lad never actually drinkin’ anythin’ but Pepsi except when he thinks he may be under bigmanagerial surveyance.

Just turn Mr. Forster inside out when you think of Wally, and Cindy from Wasilla, and (probably) Neocomrade J. Ks. Lilex and all their PAC, sir, until proven otherwise: assume that they go by the motto "Only disconnect!" and you will be nine-tenths of the way to an analysis with quite enough predictive power to be getting on with.

As follows: whenever a decent political adult is aghast and mutters "But even a Kiddie Selfservative cannot genuinely believe THAT!", the first thing he should do -- unless he is attending a pep rally for the good guys, in which cast aghastness, plus maybe a little contempt, is all that is required, dulce est desipere in loco -- is to take refuge with M. Pascal and travailler à bien penser about his own aghastness. He should ask himself, "Why, exactly, does sincere belief in this latest wingnuttiness strike me as incompatible with being a rational creature?"

The usual result of this critical enterprise will be that wingnuttiness W1 is incompatible with something else, either W2, some other nuttiness that all the lemmin’s and neolemmin’s frogmarch and goosestep under the banner of, or else P1, some proposition that scarcely anybody sane would venture to deny, except possibly for special technical purposes over in the Philosophy Department.

I.e., Wally Wombschool would be a clinical case if he were sincere about W1 and W2 (or W1 and P1) simultaneously. Once the student of neocomradology has got as far as that formulation, the rest is plain enough and signposted with my "Only disconnect!" Or rather, "Just assume that Master Wally thinks disconnectedly."

Asked, for example, "Do you think Coca Cola tastes better than Pepsi Cola?," the little laddie puts first things first, superordinates his not becomin’ an unemployment statistic over mere de gustibus and self-gossip, and stoutly barks "I sure as [exp. del.] do!" [2]

(...)

After preparing that long second note, I have decided to let Neocomrade (Fourth Class) James Ks. Lilex off the hook pending further provocation.

To apply the generalities advanced below to the particular scribble is what The Master supposedly used to speak of as being "anybody’s business." Not to mention De minimis non curat lex.

And I wish you, sir,
Healthy and affordable days.

___
[1] I see [http://www.pjtv.com/v/3509] that his freelordship has traveled way down south of the border to Lesser Texas for the weekend. Today being but Thursday, one must conclude that his freelordship keeps hours that would have made a banker blush in 1930.

Still, the longer he stays there, the better chance that Lesser Texas will re-secede as threatened and then, hopefully, intern his freelordship as an enemy alien.


[2] Should his tormentor ask "Do you REALLY think Pepsi tastes better, boy?", it seems to me that Wally is even more likely to emit the aghast-striking response.

This is by way of an epicycle to my main thesis, Dr. Bones, and I am admittedly a little less sure of myself in proposing it. In a thoroughly misguided and wingnutty way, though, I think our straw puppy really does fancy (or act as if he fancies) Pascalian bien penser: to think about a matter even MORE disconnectedly and scatterbrainèdly than usual is, as I tentatively hypothesize, what Master Wally and Miss Cindy and (most of) the rest of their PAC understand by "really thinkin’ ’bout somethin’".

Perhaps it does not quite constitute practicing political Freudianity without a license to pursue this diagnosis by observing that the wombschooled neopuppy’s response would not be out of place had the stimulus been slightly different. If the sadist in our little scenario had asked "Are you on Team Pepsi or Team Coke?", there would be no occasion for aghastness at all, even with a complete knowledege of Wally’s drinkin’ problem on the part of Dr. Cruel.

To generalise that kiddie selfservatives respond to almost all questions as if they had been asked about their team affiliation instead of about the ostensible subject-matter would probably be the sort of move that Mr. Blake stimatised as idiocy. Far be that from!

But still, Dr. Bones, you must have noticed how the "Wally loves Wally; that is, I am I" syndrome keeps cropping up at Rio Limbaugh and Port Ste. Lucie. Also at Pajama Junction.

Perhaps one may venture that, although the puppies and neopuppies are not altogether without interest in remote and ‘objective’ subject-matters, few of these are ever realised in the space between the ears with the vividity of "¡My name is Wally Wombschool and I play for Team Pajama!" As to exactly what happens, on that hypothesis, when Dr. Cruel asks about some tedious and far-off and dimly-envisioned matter like a bomb scare in Manhattan, perhaps one of the ‘association’ psychologists of century XII/XVIII/LV might have something analytically helpful. Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona -- and trick cyclists before St. Sigmund of Vienna, too, by G*re!

But Father Zeus knows best.