04 January 2012
Dear Dr. Bones,
This morning brings (what looks like) additional evidence that the perversion of Roger, zeroth freelord of Simon Pajama in the neopeerage, to illiberalism an’ antidemonocracy is not yet complete. What thoroughbread whightist would ever permit herself to sneer at "ideological purity" an’ "all-too-human yearning for simple solutions"? ¡Picture to yourself, sir, what noises Dr. Limbaugh might make of that heresy, were the Squire ever deemed worthy of hostile attention from so high on high!
I just stuck in that "what looks like," though, because it is possible that what we have here is a probative exception. Selfservative kiddies, that is, ought in general to be as uncomplicated as a June day is long, BUT when it comes to the Neolevant, naturally they must defer to those who know better. A 1001% ACU ratin’ does not, after all, altogether qualify Wally Wombschool to teach brain science or practice rocket surgery. His freelordship could be understood as classifyin’ Native Management among these residual mysteries of the learnèd, rather than with plain-an’-easy stuff like Defendin’ Western Sieve, or Tricklenomics, or Global Unwarmin’, or which team to hoot for on palaeosabbath afternoons.
Taken abstractly, that last item is no doubt the ideal level of complexity, the level that every decent, upstandin’ wad of Tee Putty ought to strive for. Not to know the foe makes one useless to one’s Venerable Funders. But to accept the fundin’ an’ the flattery an’ then go on to talk up one’s own cranky little notions rather than the little crank notions of the Fundin’ Class can be at least as bad, even supposing one’s actual choice of foes to be impeccable.
You will have seen already, doubtless, how these remarks point towards the fiendish Dr. R. E. Paul of TX-14. Admittedly, that freelordship errs as regards the actual names on his hitlist, not (for example) properly fearin’ Neville Chamberlain even when the latter comes bearing umbrellas.
Over to Simon Pajama, the neogentry have evidently decided that the specifically Pauline fiendishness has somethin’ to do with oversimplification. That seems a little hasty to me, but of course I would like to hear your own view, Dr. Bones. Like all our visitors from Planet Dilbert, even the late Miss Rand of Petersburg and Mister Nozick of H*rv*rd, Dr. Paul is clearly a crank. Granted, but ¿what has crankery to do with complexity or simplicity? ¿Or ‘purity’? If one were a Martian learning English, I think one would probably eventually arrive by fairembalanced induction at a meaning like "the flaunting of socially unacceptable opinions." 
The Squire does indeed spank Dr. Paul for unacceptability, even bizarrely suggestin’ that the whight-wingers of Iowa have the last word on permissibility -- a position that his freelordship will ditch in five seconds as soon as some other Thought Police offers a better product or a cheaper price. 
 As a former native speaker, I would want to advise Marty that it is really a little trickier than that, inasmuch as certain specialized forms of "socially unacceptable opinion" go down easily enough under special circumstances. To be a crank about what is drooled from the pulpit on weekends, or dished out to youth on Commencement Day, one must not only say it and believe it, one must actually try to do it.
I admit, though, that this is only a small district in the vast Empire of Idiocy. And certainly the exceptionalism of this exception does not particularly correlate with either simplism in one direction or mystification in the opposite direction.
 Like Cook County, IA is located too far from salt water for there to be much antecedent likelihood of it producing accurate knowledge of, or clever managerial schemes for, the Lesser Breeds Without.
The Paymasters of Pajamadom are eager to get Dr. Paul out of the way, but even so, Squire Roger is jumpin’ the gun. "Views that were repudiated by ... Republicans on Tuesday" will, I presume, be about as whight a week from today as it is now--an’ quight a lot less eyebrow-raisin’. Unless, to be sure, the fiend rallies unexpectedly in New Hampshire. But if that happens, then what his freelordship has graciously scribbled here will look just as un-Nostradamic as what a more judicious dilbertophobe might have scribbled.
And the moral of *that*, Dr. Bones, is that the Squire does seem to have gotten the sentimental side of his perversion whight. Though, as I complain, not yet altogether a *simple* Simon Pajama, his freelordship has at least become a good hormone-baser, keystrokin’ what makes him feel comfy rather than gloomy lucubrations of tedious analysis.