My OperaScupperin' Th' Oregonian
Monday, September 29, 2008 5:08:08 PM
This letter be not fer publishin’ nor would I be grantin’ me permission for such anywise. ‘Tis cancellin’ me trade wi’ th’ Oregonian I be speakin’ on, not the blarin’ o me name in yer fish-wrappin’ pages; happen I just want ter let ye know the whyfore o’ it all. Do ye not get letters such as this by the hundreds? Nay, I thought not, for who would give ye the common courtesy of lettin’ ye know why they be dumpin’ ye o’er the side?
Ye blasted gunnel-runnin’ broadsheet:
It be decades since I come to Portland in MCMLXX, takin' the shipside delivery o’ yer rag these last long fifteen winters an’ more. Durin’ that time I be gainin’ an ever-increasin’ know-how o’ the blighted dinghy’s handlin’ in all weather and still I’ve stuck aboard, most currently on the cause o’ takin’ me local port gossip in a timely manner.
But damned if yer one-faced scuppernong of a editorial page don’t rile me liver ‘til the bile be spillin’ out in waves o’ sulphrous ichor; ye place scum-buckets like Jonah Goldberg (oh, was e’er a name so fine for a shipwrecked ranter as “Jonah”? Lucky, too.) and Rich Lowry (aye well, I suspicion he do be Rich, judgin’ by his love o’ the upper classes) afore the mast but ye’ll let a couple o’ midshipmen named Goodman and Sirota out o’ the hold oncet in a tiny while the better to show off yer claims o’ equability. It be like comparin’ Attilla the Hun and Mister Pibb; a dismal breech o’ logic, do ye get me meanin'?
I seen ye squeeze yerself like a trollop’s kitty, tightenin’ the pages ‘til they cry “Yield!” fer the want o’ space to print on, all the while a-cuttin’ back their very number, and all the while the more their scanty nature ye be toutin’. Yet nary a cut in price have I descried! As me ol’ grammer says, “A fool and his money make good neighbors,” and ye must think us powerful fine neighbors at that. It be true that every now and agin ye treat on summat what matter to the local fishwives but oftimes it’s nobbut a Penny Dreadful I see when I open the pages of the latest dollop o’ codswallop. Ye doubt the pirate’s word? Here be a wee snippet from the front page o’ the II/XIX/IC pamphlet:
I can’t take no more! (Though faith, there BE more, two whole long paragraphs more o’ the same chum-oozin’ drivel afore ye turn the page, and ye still not knowin’ the direction the story’ll take nor even what be its mighty purpose.) It do call to mind the phantastic style o’ me good drinkin’ buddy Bulwer-Lytton when deepest in his cups...could ye not even be bothered to tell me what the story treat on at least?
I seen yer’ face-changin’ attempts to drink from th’ Fountain o’ Youth (what don’t exist nowhow, only ye be th’ only one what don’t know it); an old tart what covers her poxy visage wi’ floury paste and dons the garb o’ a wench thirty years her junior be a sorry sight indeed. All kitted out with the new bloggy lingo she be, only now she be chasin’ the school o’ fish, not leadin’ it, and everybody knowin’ the game. Can ye not see that an older woman can keep her dignity wi’out all the tartish aspects desperation be imposin’ on someone wi’ less fortitudinous resources? An’ be the better respected for it, for not tryin’ to grab the younger men under a false flag be th’ only sane response of a sensible beldame. ‘Tis a race ye’ve already lost; there be not a single broadside not already fired from another bigger, faster ship by the time I get the news from ye; the reports o’ the guns be long since echoed off into yeasty silence when yer measly poots come a-puffin’ across me larboard, aye even up to a week later betimes.
But I’ve stuck wi’ ye, y’old bitch, for what were the better alternative? Blood be thicker than water down the drain, as me old grammer do say in her dotage. But now ye’ve strained at the gnat what broke the camel’s eye o’ the needle; ye’ve posted me a scurrilous spinnin’ platter o’ the mightiest, meanest, whoreson-infested scandalmongerin’ blether in the guise o’ savin’ me from the Infidel that e’er I’ve come across in all me years at sea. This be firewood I can’t burn! Why, the foul fumes’d drive the cook from out the galley in a trice, nor will I scruple to store it like a good cabin boy. Nay, ye must come take it back yerself an’ do wi’ it what ye will for I’ve no need for such a small anchor as this be. An’ do ye not, I’ll broadcast it through me megaphone to all the other ships at sea until ye be shamed into the ransomin’ of the bastid object.
I’ll not lower meself to discussin’ the content of the ratty plate, for it be food o’ dissent thrown to foment a rancorous exchange and it’s already succeded all too well, there bein’ an incident in Ohio this very weekend with innocent babes and such tormented by a nasty Greek Fire or some such as they waited in their church (what the spinners be callin’ “pagan”, I’m thinkin’), all inspired by the movin' pictures on the damned thing.
And that be not the worst! Will ye not hear it? “Fred Stickel, cap’n o’ th’ Oregonian, bellowed that the rag be treatin’ th’ DVD same as it do any other fair trade or cargo. ‘I b’lieve we’ve an objurgation to keep our hold as open as can be,’ said the cap’n, and him already a-watchin the damned thing. ‘Do we ship it or not don’t depend on what be in the box at all. It be a matter o’ free piratical speech.’”
Oh aye? These bleatin’s from a vessel what won’t take a case o’ French letters seem the height o’ mealy-mouthed hypocrisy, for if it truly don’t matter what be in th’ box then surely there could be no call to embargo summat what might be a pox preventer, do ye not think? Nay, I’ve called ye an old whore (well, truth to tell, I said “old bitch” but I warrant ye get me meanin’) afore and I’ll stick wi’ it. But nary a foot will ye place on me deck from this day, for I’ll not be exposin’ meself or me mates to yer chancres and pustules no matter how they be dolled up and hid; I’ll be availin’ meself o’ th’ oldest trick in th’ book when dealin’ wi’ a whore: abstinence.
Off wi’ ye!
Ye blasted gunnel-runnin’ broadsheet:
It be decades since I come to Portland in MCMLXX, takin' the shipside delivery o’ yer rag these last long fifteen winters an’ more. Durin’ that time I be gainin’ an ever-increasin’ know-how o’ the blighted dinghy’s handlin’ in all weather and still I’ve stuck aboard, most currently on the cause o’ takin’ me local port gossip in a timely manner.
But damned if yer one-faced scuppernong of a editorial page don’t rile me liver ‘til the bile be spillin’ out in waves o’ sulphrous ichor; ye place scum-buckets like Jonah Goldberg (oh, was e’er a name so fine for a shipwrecked ranter as “Jonah”? Lucky, too.) and Rich Lowry (aye well, I suspicion he do be Rich, judgin’ by his love o’ the upper classes) afore the mast but ye’ll let a couple o’ midshipmen named Goodman and Sirota out o’ the hold oncet in a tiny while the better to show off yer claims o’ equability. It be like comparin’ Attilla the Hun and Mister Pibb; a dismal breech o’ logic, do ye get me meanin'?
I seen ye squeeze yerself like a trollop’s kitty, tightenin’ the pages ‘til they cry “Yield!” fer the want o’ space to print on, all the while a-cuttin’ back their very number, and all the while the more their scanty nature ye be toutin’. Yet nary a cut in price have I descried! As me ol’ grammer says, “A fool and his money make good neighbors,” and ye must think us powerful fine neighbors at that. It be true that every now and agin ye treat on summat what matter to the local fishwives but oftimes it’s nobbut a Penny Dreadful I see when I open the pages of the latest dollop o’ codswallop. Ye doubt the pirate’s word? Here be a wee snippet from the front page o’ the II/XIX/IC pamphlet:
Cal Gantenbein were 55, his hair turned all silver-like, and he poured a mug o’ black coffee in the small galley o’ his yellow sloop on Cherry Wharf just as the mate piped ‘permission to come aboard’.
Through the galley porthole, he had been watchin’ the mornin’ squalls transform midwinter Oregon into a hundred shades o’ gray and green. The white galley cabinets and ship’s candles were brightenin’ the galley in stark contrast.
Coffee in hand, he were plannin' to find his newspaper and the rest o’ his mornin’.
The pipin’ killed that reverie.
At this hour o’ the morning, Cal figured, his visitor had to be a Jehovah’s witness, or someone what could be tossed overboard quickly.
I can’t take no more! (Though faith, there BE more, two whole long paragraphs more o’ the same chum-oozin’ drivel afore ye turn the page, and ye still not knowin’ the direction the story’ll take nor even what be its mighty purpose.) It do call to mind the phantastic style o’ me good drinkin’ buddy Bulwer-Lytton when deepest in his cups...could ye not even be bothered to tell me what the story treat on at least?
I seen yer’ face-changin’ attempts to drink from th’ Fountain o’ Youth (what don’t exist nowhow, only ye be th’ only one what don’t know it); an old tart what covers her poxy visage wi’ floury paste and dons the garb o’ a wench thirty years her junior be a sorry sight indeed. All kitted out with the new bloggy lingo she be, only now she be chasin’ the school o’ fish, not leadin’ it, and everybody knowin’ the game. Can ye not see that an older woman can keep her dignity wi’out all the tartish aspects desperation be imposin’ on someone wi’ less fortitudinous resources? An’ be the better respected for it, for not tryin’ to grab the younger men under a false flag be th’ only sane response of a sensible beldame. ‘Tis a race ye’ve already lost; there be not a single broadside not already fired from another bigger, faster ship by the time I get the news from ye; the reports o’ the guns be long since echoed off into yeasty silence when yer measly poots come a-puffin’ across me larboard, aye even up to a week later betimes.
But I’ve stuck wi’ ye, y’old bitch, for what were the better alternative? Blood be thicker than water down the drain, as me old grammer do say in her dotage. But now ye’ve strained at the gnat what broke the camel’s eye o’ the needle; ye’ve posted me a scurrilous spinnin’ platter o’ the mightiest, meanest, whoreson-infested scandalmongerin’ blether in the guise o’ savin’ me from the Infidel that e’er I’ve come across in all me years at sea. This be firewood I can’t burn! Why, the foul fumes’d drive the cook from out the galley in a trice, nor will I scruple to store it like a good cabin boy. Nay, ye must come take it back yerself an’ do wi’ it what ye will for I’ve no need for such a small anchor as this be. An’ do ye not, I’ll broadcast it through me megaphone to all the other ships at sea until ye be shamed into the ransomin’ of the bastid object.
I’ll not lower meself to discussin’ the content of the ratty plate, for it be food o’ dissent thrown to foment a rancorous exchange and it’s already succeded all too well, there bein’ an incident in Ohio this very weekend with innocent babes and such tormented by a nasty Greek Fire or some such as they waited in their church (what the spinners be callin’ “pagan”, I’m thinkin’), all inspired by the movin' pictures on the damned thing.
And that be not the worst! Will ye not hear it? “Fred Stickel, cap’n o’ th’ Oregonian, bellowed that the rag be treatin’ th’ DVD same as it do any other fair trade or cargo. ‘I b’lieve we’ve an objurgation to keep our hold as open as can be,’ said the cap’n, and him already a-watchin the damned thing. ‘Do we ship it or not don’t depend on what be in the box at all. It be a matter o’ free piratical speech.’”
Oh aye? These bleatin’s from a vessel what won’t take a case o’ French letters seem the height o’ mealy-mouthed hypocrisy, for if it truly don’t matter what be in th’ box then surely there could be no call to embargo summat what might be a pox preventer, do ye not think? Nay, I’ve called ye an old whore (well, truth to tell, I said “old bitch” but I warrant ye get me meanin’) afore and I’ll stick wi’ it. But nary a foot will ye place on me deck from this day, for I’ll not be exposin’ meself or me mates to yer chancres and pustules no matter how they be dolled up and hid; I’ll be availin’ meself o’ th’ oldest trick in th’ book when dealin’ wi’ a whore: abstinence.
Off wi’ ye!
