TBogg

Irony slits its wrists and waits in the bathtub for the inevitable

The Big Trunk (…and Mrs. Trunk says it’s not really that big) waxes lyrical about Democrats and their less than cordial treatment of Albert “Memo Marat” Gonzales:

Democratic Senators are now using their constitutional powers to demoralize and humiliate Alberto Gonzales in the service of lies that can have no effect other than service to the enemies of the United States. At roughly the same time, California Senator Barbara Boxer turns on the tears as she objects to the certification of Ohio’s electoral votes (story photo and slideshow available here) in the service of another set of lies that have equally destructive purposes. Bob Dylan captures the Boxer phenomenon perfectly in “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll”:

You who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain’t the time for your tears.

As for the senators tormenting Alberto Gonzales — the shameless Senator Kennedy and the bloviating Senators Biden and Leahy foremost among them — Heather Mac Donald has a few words in her Wall Street Journal column. Mac Donald’s column is condensed from her outstanding City Journal article: “How to interrogate terrorists.”

The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll

Here’s all the lyrics:

William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath’rin’.
And the cops were called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
And booked William Zanzinger for first-degree murder.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain’t the time for your tears.

William Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide and protect him
And high office relations in the politics of Maryland,
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear words and sneering, and his tongue it was snarling,
In a matter of minutes on bail was out walking.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain’t the time for your tears.

Hattie Carroll was a maid of the kitchen.
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn’t even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level,
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down through the room,
Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle.
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain’t the time for your tears.

In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all’s equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain’t pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught ’em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom,
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin’ that way without warnin’.
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished,
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance,
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence.
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now’s the time for your tears.

So, if I’m not mistaken, the Big Trunk defends the Administration’s enabler of torture, by citing a song describing the beating death of a black maid by a rich white man who then walks away with a slap on the wrist.

Since the Trunk is either irony or Dylan-impaired, I thought I’d help him out:

Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’,
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’,
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’,
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

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TBogg

TBogg

Yeah. Like I would tell you....