Before America's brains actually fell out its ass, which has happened progressively and spasmodicaly, in singultations since the beginning of the Republic long dust, before Advertizing got really rolling, there was Twain, and his roundhouse decking of that fop who wrote Leatherstocking Tales, and laid down America's tolerance for bullshit to a new level, that of the Westerner (which in those sad old days meant Oneida and Lake Erie), that jerk the father of Nathaniel Bumppo the Woodsman, and I can't remember his name, ah yess, Cooper. Read how Twain thrashed him, and remember there was actually a time when words mattered, and near-words were not near good enough to the right words, and the old prairie Englishmaster, ever existed (s)he? - insisted that words MEAN something. And now fast-forward to the mad shoveling and backlying about our economy, as we try to uncouple the last few ore-cars from the freight train, would that a half-dozen or so b'dum,b'dum; b'dum,bdum; be avoided, the sound as the wheels roll over our cranial bones, that amelioration of less a dozen will by definition, be a good thing. Less carbon, less warming. Won't spall the granite on our gravestones, those who still will merit them from the living.
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