Now Written in ULC

Do you know what ULC is? How about PB? TL? CS? ZM? HD? If you’re as smart as I believe most listeners to WUIS radio are, you don’t have a clue. Let me spiel it out . . . . and I’m going to do this only once, so ya bedda paeya tensheen OQAY?

ULC means upper (and) lower case, PB means patently bull, TL means tremulous litany, CS is for Carly Simon (like really, I had to tell you THAT?); ZM is zany Macarena and HD means hybrid digital . . . as in hybrid digital broadcast signal. It’s a high-tech thing.

Now that you’ve been brought UtS* with modern life in SS**, I can forgive you for not knowing all of the above listed alphabet soup but CS. She’s so vain, she prob’ly thinks this blog’s about her. The one you REALLY OTK*** is HD, but WUIS would rather throw two-letter gibberish at you instead of speaking the longhand version.

I was listening to WUIS and Karl Scroggin’s fine classical music show LAST AUGUST when station manager Bill Wheelhouse and (I believe) Rich Bradley stepped into the studio about 10:10 am and announced the station was now officially broadcasting in hybrid digital mode. It was all ultra extraordinary, and I was impressed by the upgrade. There is talent at the UIS helm.

Too bad it doesn’t extend to the lower decks of the air-faring vessel. The switch to hybrid digital was so indescribably wonderful that for the next seven months, the station went about its good business without mentioning it again. Those who have digital receivers enjoyed the improved sound and all was cool. I’m not jealous of those with digital sets. Their signal is always excellent where I live. CHEEZIS I’m “jealous” of anybody who still has the hot WATER connected! (I digress)

Along about springtime, someone at WUIS whose office is perilously close to the bilge water, got the bright idea of TELLING THE WORLD, not about hybrid digital radio, but HD radio instead. And not just once or twice in a morning or afternoon or evening or late at night in breaks from BBC NIEEEWS . . . . . . they’ve been sharing the happy tidings three or four or more times a bleeping HOUR, all de lib-long day! I almost miss their strident entreaties to attend the Bedrock concerts “brought to you by Samuel Adams (nudge nudge, wink wink, saynomoah saynomoah). Over recent MONTHS of this crypto-repetito I have heard NOT ONE reference to what the fring-frang HD MEANS! I am offended by this breach of the bilge water tank not because I don’t know what they’re talking about. PISH, Montague, I KNOW what they’re talking about and now, so do YOU. I am offended because they continue to use the ultra-kewl abbreviation for “hybrid digital” loooong before the long-hand phrase has found a place in the lexicon of John and Joan Q. Listener! HD is not “shorthand” the way BTW and ROTFL and L8R are. Given the lack of presence of the long form in WUIS broadcasting, I am confident that a large percentage of listeners don’t have a clue what the F they’re talking about. W’S is being “cute” at best — major contributors no doubt support “cute” and the gentle chortling eminating therefrom. Good for the troops you know, old boy. The public is not served by the damnably frequent references to what the public most likely does not understand. WUIS serves neither the common good or their mandate to educate as they continue without spelling “hybrid digital” out occasionally.

So clean up your act, buckos and buckettes at WUIS. And if you don’t, I guess for the rest of us, that will be simply TS.

* up to speed
** serene Springfield
*** ought to know

The Pedantry & Hyperbole of Local Wedapisen Human Being Television Media Broadcasters

I’ve gotta tell ya, I’ve been biting my typing fingers a lot lately, determined not to pick WUIS nits until I could pick a few from someone else. On the back burner was a “steeyeeew” on low heat because I didn’t want to let it boil until I added a few more ingerdients as Archie Bunker or #43 might say. Today, my pot runneth uber. The name of the wedapisen doesn’t matter because I enjoy watching them all. This isn’t about wedapisens; it’s about wedalingo.

Last night I was told “It’s going to get COLD next week, when the predicted high temperature will be 78 degrees.” My hand to God, the wedapisen said “cold” and “78 degrees” in the same breath! If any reader of this blombastic bog has ever been cold when surrounded by 78 degree air, please te’ me in the comments.

I’m no weda histerian, but from what I can tell today, there must have been a time when snow came down in showers and rain kissed the earsty thirth in flurries and blizzards. Then came a change in the nomenclature. To keep old folks from being confused, wedapisens, today, combine terms as other pedants might refer to a sleek Ford Mustang AUTOMOBILE and a nicely tailored shirt CLOTHING and field CROP of soy bean LEGUMES. Why? My guess is because if they say “tomorrow we have a 90% chance of showers” old people will consider chances are 90% that someone they know or don’t know will cleanse themselves standing up in a stall or tub with curtain drawn to keep the floor from getting wet with water (or pee) OR there’s a 90% chance of snow SHOWERS kissing the earsty thirth in frozen flakes of precipitation. For that reason it seems essential, in the interest of allaying a chance of engendering an unwarranted sense of impending good hygene, or worse, apathy to its positive merit, wedapisens must say RAIN showers!

Wedapisens please note: When you say flurries, we KNOW you’re talking about snow. When you say blizzards, we know you mean snow. When you say showers, we know you are predicting rain. It’s almost 90 degrees outside, though it may descend to a bone-chidrin — make that chillin’ — 78 degrees next week. We know you aren’t jivin’ the peeps with trash about little icy bits on July the frikking second!

One more thing. Months ago you noted the preciptation so far in 2008 was 8.2 inches, “five inches more than what it’s supposed to be.” The fact and words were yours in that order; I’m not making them up. I don’t believe you meant “more that what it’s supposed to be.” When little Yanni is out of bed and perched, unseen by the guests, in the stairway leading down to his mom’s bridge club, hearing the ladies dish the dirt at 11:30 pm, and he’s discovered by his dad, transiting from the basement rec room upstairs to hit the hay, little Yanni is not where he’s supposed to be. When the best man passes out in his noodles alfredo at the wedding reception and on revival, hurls what he’s eaten so far through his spasming throat and onto his date’s lovely lap, he is not what he’s supposed to be. When wedapisen states excess precip is not what it’s supposed to be, that is not the point at all. The POINT is that average aqua by March is three point something inches, and the current total accumulation is five inches MORE THAN AVERAGE. The average ANYTHING is NOT what it’s suposed to be. You can eat a variety of vegetables with dinner this week and still eat what you’re supposed to eat. The fact that this week you’ve consumed more corn than beets means only that you’ve averaged more corn than beets. You’ve not exceeded generally accepted parameters for recommended daily nutrition.

So clean up your act, wedapisens. Say what you mean. And if you’re being paid by the word, don’t bombast us with excessively redundant, surplus repeated repetiiton. Describe the weather better. Repetition is not better. Open up your vocabulary. Give the news to me straight, and neat.

No ice.

News Interviews’ Buffer Rhetoric: Pointless “Thankyous”

If you believe the interviews with newsmakers you hear on NPR broadcasts include all that is said between ‘er and ‘ee, think again. Many of the interviews are edited. You don’t hear “Senator Jones? This is Bob Smith at NPR National in Washington. Do you have a few minutes to talk to me about your vote on the proposed three-legged chair proposition earlier today? You do? That’s great. Sir, the tape is rolling . . . now.” and then the edited version of that interview is broadcast. You also don’t hear, after the interview, “Senator, I’d like to pass you to my producer Sara Moore, to ask you some questions about John McCain’s veterans’ education stance and the rising cost of fuel. Do you have a few minutes? . . . . Great. Thanks for talking with me, sir. Have a good day.” and then Sara reads from a prepared list, prepares tape for future stories, and all is right with the world. My point is that there is dialogue between ‘er and ‘ee that should not be making the air during newscasts. Seven words “Thank you for your time” and “You’re welcome.”

On Morning Edition today, an interviewee was thanked going into the interview and at the conclusion. It happens frequently. I am 100% for courtesy to good people who take time out from their day to be engaged by reporters. Not every newsmaker is a sure bet for that cooperation. Sometimes an ‘ee can be burned if he or she says something later determined to be controversial and inciteful of umbrage. That said, “thank you for your time, joining us, speaking with us. . . . ” and “You’re welcome, sure thing, any time, you bet, no problem, thank YOU” are pointless rhetorical extravigance that takes up seconds better spent sharing hard news.

Can you imagine Dave Bakke writing a column that way?
I spoke with the former Mitch Miller Chorus singer Siqs Pence at his home on Springfield’s near west side last Thursday. I said “Thank you Mr. Pence for permitting me to visit you today and share some of your memories.” He replied, “Your welcome, Dave. I love your column and have subscribed to the State Journal since 1933.”

No, that kind of column wouldn’t cut the mustard. Dave knows that. The fine producers at NPR should know that as well.

Clean up your act, Bucko. We know you’re couteous and professional already. Please give us more news and less buffer rhetoric.

The FUTURE Is Not News; It’s Cheap BULL-IT-IN Cereal Filler; Not Meat

Nothing is as useless to thinking legal citizens of the United Snakes — make that States — of America as what I call pre-news: reports of what is happening tomorrow or two or three days from now, even speculative yammering about what MIGHT happen in a week or a month from now. This isn’t news at all; it’s pre-news: easy work, filler fodder for lame news directors with under-staffed and under-budgeted news departments and the curiosity of fresh-water barnacles.

The only forecasting useful to modern hummin’ beans in this age is the weather report for the rest of today and tomorrow, a few keyboard clicks away. And even then it’s just educated speculation. If Gus tells us it’s going to rain, how many of us will take a rain coat with us to the car when we leave for work(WORK!) The only time we give him our real attention is when you can’t see the tree in your front yard because the rain’s falling that hard, and the emergency sirens just came on. I believe in the State Journal-Register. For years, I had a little plastic statue of John Armstrong on the dashboard of my car. They do okay; okay? That said, the ink they squander on “It’s gonna happen soon.” would be better directed to feeding out of work freelance journalists — my slightly biased view.

Does the 6:20 sportscaster tell you the Cubs are playing at Pittsburgh, and the score is predicted to be a score of between 12 and 2 for the Cubs against 5 and 8 for the Pirates? To be honest I don’t know, but I suspect not. It’s been awhile since I’ve watched a sports report.

Have we all heard about what Hillary’s a g’wine to do on Satadee? We’ve been hearing it, and reading it, and watching it since last frikking WEDNESDAY! The nice thing about pointless and wasteful and distracting pre-news is that if you get facts into your two-minute national radio news marathon broadcast at the top of the hour, or page one Wednesday, you can continue to milk that udder inconsequent for three DAYS deeper into the national pages and on the taped news regurgitation hurled from 7 p until 5 a the next day.

News is NOT the upcoming speech. Even when the report quotes excerpts of a speech slated for delivery at 3 p Eastern in the broadcast at 9 a. News is the speech DELIVERED!

News is not “HERE COMES THE BELMONT STAKES oh boy, oh boy.” News is “The Belmont Stakes was run in record time today, and a way up yonder, ahead of them all, came a prancin’ and dancin’ the noble ‘Stewball.’” or words to that effect.

News is not “Barack Obama plans to visit the war-ravaged streets of Springfield’s East Side in August.” News is “Barack Obama visited the war-ravaged streets of Springfield’s East Side today and appointed Jesse Jackson to serve as Ambassador to Contact Ministries.”

Predicitons of news are terrific when shared by the people who will make the news with people who will report the news. When I was a post-grad-school reporter-intern with Illinois News Network at the Illinois Capitol Building in the 70s, the Press Office posted advisories on a bulletin board: — Senator James Smith (R-Bensenhurst) will announce his drafting of a bill banning three-legged chairs in elementary schools at 10:30 today. . . . . . Secretary of State representative Natalie Jones will announce a new initiative to mandate seatbelts on motorcycles at 1:30 tomorrow . . . . This was terrific for those of us in the trenches. We attended, took notes and reported. But we did not waste YOUR time and ours telling you what was going to happen real soon. We reported news; not pre-news. Twenty-first century media should do the same.

Clean up your act, Buckos. Give it to me whan it is; not when it isn’t!

If You’re Just Joining Us . . . .

. . . . . just keep fiddling with the bleeding radio or television dial . . . . or “eaze on down the road,” Ms. Garland-Black. Keep caroming around your little world and find a broom stick you can crawl on (thank you theme song to The Adams Family) and go bye-bye already. If you were already here, hello again. I won’t say “welcome back;” you had not gone away. I’m not saying you never went away because I have “gone away” more than once in my life, and I will go away again. That’s just part of whom I yam.

Despite this, BRAVO the Fresh Air WUIS interface with Sheryl Crowe which was more enjoyable than I thought it would be. Terri Gross made it happen that way. It was a fine interview, and if I were going to buy a CD soon, Mrs. Crowe would be in contention for my CD discretionary income. Dave Davies, the Gross announcer extraordinaire, inspired this posting.

Back to my point. If you’re just joining us . . . . If you hadn’t joined the program, I’m not talking to you anywhey. And what I’m talking about here, I was talking about before you joined “us” too. Inodda woids, I’m not excluding those who were with us before. That is before as in “To all the girls I’ve Iahved . . . . .beeFOORE.” It seems only fair that what I am talking about is intended to be heard by those were with “us” before and came to “us” after before had ended and in that nanosecond as just had begun!

No only am I happy to have explained this to every one of you readers . . . . . I am happier than that. I am happy to have explained this to each and every one of you. As I understand this language, that means that if each of you totalled 10 readers, each and every one of you totaled 10 readers. Much more impressive, don’t you think?

No, Hitler didn’t murder 6 million Jews and unwanted minorities; hd did worse than that. He murdered all of 6 million of them — no wait; he was even more dispicable. Do you know why? Of course you do! Don’t play “radio announcer” with me ladies and germs (<– just a phrase; no offense intended). He was more dispicable because he killed every one of themNOWAIT! He was even worse — and he wasn’t even a tax’n’spend Libra. He murdered each and every one of them!

If you’re just joining us . . . .

Live long . . . . . . and p;roper.

Now That I’m Leaving, I Hope You Had a Good Day

Some blog post ideas stay with me like a partial blockage in the lower gastrointestinal tract, and while small matters pass through okay, there comes a time when you just want to dump that lingering boulder in your behind. So it is with ABC news 5:30 (CDT) new anchor Charlie Gibson’s closing, “I hope you had a nice day.”

Imagine you . . . I mean YOU . . . . YEAH YOU and I meet in the street and you say “Montague, what be happenin’?” Pausing only for a commercial break every few minutes, I tell you that yesterday I had most of a jar of Folger’s Instant, eight slices of bread and half a jar of Hellman’s in the frikking house, but I slept okay because I knew today I would buy more tea, bread, peanut butter and raspberry preserves. I’m scratching itches on my arms and legs that sometimes bleed a little like bothered mosquito bites, that I’ve not washed my hair since the last time I substitute taught (too long ago), but on the upside, I discovered that a dirty scalp holds a part better than a clean one; that for some nutty reason my right ear is stopped up and I’m hearing mostly out of my left one. On the positive side, the phone doesn’t seem to ring as often as it used to.

By this time, you’re looking at your watch and tapping the dial because it seems to be frozen in time. I get the hint and end my spiel.

“so other than that, life is tolerable. Thanks for listening. I hope you had a nice day.”

As you turn away, determined to walk a block in the opposite direction before resuming your earlier trek to sundown, you’re thinking “What the HELL does he mean saying he hopes I HAD a nice day?!” Could he be #43 making nice with a Brownie troop from South Succotash, Mississippi and say anything more patently banal and bereft of sincerity?

You HOPE I HAD a nice DAY? How could you, a total stranger half a frikking world away, as essential to my life as the mythical “Peter Cottontail, hoppin’ down the bunny trail,” connect with any humanity, even the office help one floor down from our broadcast studio with a wan wish that I,  Springfield, Illinois bois “had a nice day?”

I have news for you, Bucko; “HAD” presumes my day is OVER, and unless my heart stops before I complete this sentence, “had” does not apply to my day until I go to bed!

What impact can your best wish for me (real or belched, as Whitman would have said) have with the PAST TENSE part of my day? You may as well say, Welcome back from the theater, Mrs. Lincoln, I hope you had a nice play.” Can your plastic attitude for my Monday night dinner of two packs of Ramen noodles, a few spoons full of peanut butter and the last of my iced tea take me back to that meal and insert a cheeseburger, fries and a Coke? Do you want me to BELIEVE that it could have done that? I don’t think it could.

If you had told me this morning, “I hope things go well for you today,” I could have surfed that milligram of positive karma, and it might have been just enough (real or imagined) to elevate my trailing foot another centimeter above that hurdle (the race is full of hurdles) and prevented me from falling onto the cindered track, from bleeding knees and palms of hands and the almost-concealed amusement of my adversaries. Carry me, Senor Geepsen; don’t console me. One “Go get ‘em tiger.” trumps a week of “I hope you had a nice day.” My hope, thus infused with your shared hope (real or ersatz) MAY make a frikking difference. Don’t SIGH at me. Shake my hand with your words.

Clean up your act, Bucko. Wish me a better future; the past be damned.

STUFF; Charlie Gibson

If you believe punctuation doesn’t matter, consider the headline above without it.

I see ABC 5:30 pm (CDT) news anchor Charlie Gibson more between 2:30 and 3:30, sometimed 4 am than between 5:30 and 6 p. In his promos for his program, he explains, looking directly into camera lens central, “When my kids ask me what I do for a living, I explain ‘I tell people sTuff.’” The word “sTuff” snaps out of his lips like a ladyfinger firecracker detonating between your thumb and forefinger. I know this because as a 10 year old visiting my Aunt Stelle and Uncle Turner (Anderson, WONDERFUL PEOPLE) in Leavenworth, Kansas on summer vacations two or three did, and they left me with a lasting impression approached since only by Charlie Gibson promoting his news show.

Consider the point of the promo spot. Is he talking to pre-schoolers mesmeriziated in front of a TV set while waiting for breakfast? No. He’s talking to ADULTS.

You want know why blogger mad when grownup newsman talk to grownups like he talk to little bice and guress? Me mad cuz what he say when he talk news is much more than STUFF. THAT why.

What does Brian Otwell, Chief Public Defender for Sangamon County do when defending a client? Do you suppose he tells the jury STUFF? What do you suppose Mrs. Gibson tells Charlie when he calls home after another fine newscast and he asks her “What’s on for dinner, sweetheart?” Do you suppose she says “STUFF!” ???

“Don’t bother me Laura,” #43 might say to a curious first lady. “I’m busy right now.” . . . . “Really! What are you working on, First Man?” . . . . . “I’m working on . . . . I’m work. . . . . I’m working on STUFF!,” he returts, “And have you seen my orange crayon?”

A free clue for yue: Charlie Gibson does not tell people “stuff” and only because I have seen his excellent work and conversation do I believe the gentleman is smart enough to know that. Because he’s a nice bloke and wants to get along with the ABC Promotions Department, he goes along with the chaff they bring him to read aloud to the camera.

There may be a time when, because of pressing commercial revenue considerations, we may witness an abbreviated newscast. . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Good evening. Stuff happened. Live with it. I hope you had a nice day. For ZZZ News this is Charlie Gibson. Buenas noches.”

Qlean ap yer aqt, muchachum. Don’t sourgum us with “stuff” when we deserve meat and potatoes and a fine,  green vegetable on the side.

Commercial-Free Public RAdio? Give Me a BEAK!

Okay, so I meant Break, but I also meant to lasso you into this posting, which I have done, don’ you know.

I don’t remember when everyone used pencils or fountain pens, which is not to say I don’t remember “the good old days.” To prove it . . . . I remember when WSSU (early incarnation of WUIS) bragged it was commercial free, it was correct, and I supported it during at least one of the two semi-annual broadcast fund-raising marathons. In 2008 it isn’t commercial free, and the semi-annual fundraising campaigns have evolved into four (if I remember correctly) separated from the one before and the one after by about as much space as you’ll find between Springfield and Jerome. And in that space, one is treated to exciting news such as . . . . . “In just a few weeks, we’ll start our next fund-raising campaign, so give early. If you do, we might even stop the campaign short, by maybe five hours.” . . . . . and (for what, two weeks?) after that we are reminded ad nauseum . . . . . “Thanks for giving to our recently concluded annual spring, summer, fall or winter fund-raiser. If you missed your chance, there is still time to call in your pledge, and while you’re on the line, let us talk to you about signing over part of your estate to us after you pass to that great by and by in the sky. Remember, an endowment means we won’t bother you in the afterlife, maybe”. . . . . . . . But that’s not the worst of it. WUIS is becoming the Home Shopping Network of commercials for this concert and that concert, this cruise and that cruise, this special address or that special address. If they wanted to be as professional as Rich Bradley, their news director non pariel, they’d broadcast a 30 second spot going into the hourly news and a 30 second spot coming out of it, even if it meant cutting news content by a minute on the half-past-the-hour-casts. Then vary the news content at the half-hours to keep people like me from going to the kitchen for more coffee during most of them.

Loyal listeners are being pecked to unhappy distraction by one bleeping commercial after the other. It could be worse, I suppose. On PBS TV station WSEC, I can almost bake a pizza during the time between the end of one evening program and the start of another. It’s almost as bad as the commecial breaks on ABC’s late night news. Not only could I cook a pizza during that show’s half hour breaks, I could make one from scratch as well.

This puffery of parading as a commercial-free radio seems about as four-square as dodging enemy ire during a junket to Cosovo.

Here’s to the hope that WUIS finds a better way to quit prodding listeners in the ears with their persistent peckers. They may get my attention that way, but they will never earn my support.

Clean up your act, Bucko. Back off on the commercials!

Umbrage Universal - A History

The (hi)story begins in 1966 at what was then known as Springfield Junior College. The Charles Becker Library was still a gleam in the architect’’s eye. Part of the school’s library was in a large first floor room on the north end of the school. There, a 19 year old English major spent many hours seeking wisdom the ages, rrading the “Oxford Dictinary of Quotations” (or something like that), and anything that had pithy observations about life. The real philosophers didn’t interest me. I had to read English translations of Aristotle and some others, which was all well and good, not a big deal, but I didn’t want to have to disembowel and butcher a steer to enjoy a roast beef sandwich. That’s why I stayed in the main, with Poor Richard and others. There was a book of observations from all over the world — maybe it was the Oxford book; I don’t remember — which was my “Rosetta Stone. When I found a “saying” I liked, I wrote it down. Before I lost interest in the pursuit, I had filled probably 10 pages. The one quote I remember to this day is: . . . .

“One can tell a lot about the measure of a man by the size of the thing that makes him angry.” – Arab proverb

The words have clung to me like lung congestion accidentally coughed onto a shirt sleeve. They, as much as anything memorized in Sunday school, have tamed me when I needed to be tamed, not as consistently as they should have, and clearly not often eough.

Flash forward. Umbrage Universal was born in the 1980s when it seemed to me too much of my world — people I either knew or cared about — was beginning to take itself too bleeping explitively seriously.

I designed a four-sided, business card-size card. On the front was an illustration of a hand with an outstretched finger pointing directly at the reader and the words “CLEAN UP YOUR ACT, BUCKO !” The extended finger was/is the one you use when you’re pointing directions to a visitor from Virden; not the one you display when he steps on your foot as he walks back to his pickup truck.

At the top of the inside (panel 2) was the definition of the word “umbrage.” I thought a philosopher must define terms first and I lifted the def from a dictionary. Between top and bottom was space to briefly write your complaint. On the bottom (panel 3) were the words I also share at this blog: “This message is brought to you …..” And on back I invited readers to send $5 for 10 “Clean up your act” cards to a post office box I rented.

The goal was that if you saw a car parked on a front lawn of a home in town, a silly thing uttered during a news cast, or a poorly phrased, insulting poem at an open mic, Umbrage Universal members (those who has bought the cards) could share the UU cards with the crime perpetrators and eventually, of course, we would make the world a better place.

I even sent media releases out announcing the creation of Umbrage Universal, complete with cards and an Umbrage Universal manifesto.

Nothing happened.

Even so, most folks I’ve showed the cards to over the years, friends who had not offended me, liked the idea. Since I’m clearly not going to make a penny from it or darn near anything else I create, why not give it away?

This was born, Umbrage Universal, the blog.

Clean up your act, bucko!

Keep Them Squirming!

Keep THem Squirming!

George and Melissa were a storybook couple
till Melissa heard a terrible tale
how Georgie’s cousin, long removed
robbed a bank of her great mom-in-laws
and wound up doing time in jail.
Now she thinks that Georgie owes her
for some craven gross indignity
and so he plays a losing game
of repaying her for losses that will never make them equal
and will never lift the stultifying shame.

Keep them squirming. Keep them squirming!
It doesn’t matter who’s wrong and who’s right
when myopia means a good fight.
Keep them squirming.

If you behave like the victim, they will always owe you something
for the dignity they stole from sinless cogs.
By choosing their crimes carefully, you always will have company:
a chorus of self-righteous underdogs.
If inflated sense of self is that it takes to make you happy,
just go out and grab your demons by the ears,
and blame the rest of your humanity, enshrined in their banality,
their sense of truth and justice and their fears.

Keep them squirming. Keep them squirming!
The methane balloon of your cause can be real,
inflated by the hurricane of pompous zeal.
Keep them squirming.

Compromise is unwise. Give an inch, and they’ll get lazy.
Reason is unreasonable today.
Folks with steady moral compasses aren’t all Forest Gumpasses
and wailing like a banshee will make some of them look your way.
Common sense isn’t common. If it were, you’d lose your ticket
to the train where polar differences thrive.
And the truth that’s in the middle wouldn’t be the long-lost riddle
in a world of crazed gorillas talking jive.

Keep them squirming. Keep them squirming
to atone for the life that you live!
It sure beats learning how to forgive.
Keep them squirming.

– Job Conger

Clean up your act, bucko!