The filters

 

 

 

Snob fatigue
(by R.P.Edwards)

We acquiesce to intellect
Believing that it’s wise
But time oft tells
It smacks of hell
A satan, in disguise

The name, more than the stunning Fioravanti suit with matching Berluti shoes; more than the drop off in his candy-apple red Ferrari and impressive entourage of polished perfects; it was the name of this imported, world renowned defense lawyer that gave most in this out-of-the-way Appalachian town that star-struck, deer in the headlights look that spoke, if nothing else, of an internal compass being ever so slightly warped and wrangled to, without a word being spoken or the slightest hint of  proof, bend towards the desire of this litigating legend for, as simply all knew; “he” showed up only if there were the absolute certainty of victory.  And, as he, amidst hushed tones of audience adulation, made his way to the front table, even some in the jury box could be seen to mouth the slogan that had become synonymous with this lawyers lawyer.  “With Roger Gin…you win.”

On the bench, judge Stark.  Long in the black robes he, as it turns out, was of the same graduating class as the impressive visitor and indeed, at one time they had readily rubbed elbows in the halls of that hallowed east coast institution.  But, after graduation, their lives had taken drastically different tacks and, though one had ascended from one golden rung to the next (“always” choosing the glittering lift) the other, through a series of difficult and demanding, and even humbling choices had had nearly all the trappings of elitism, entitlement and aristocracy roughly scrubbed from his person and psyche.

“Mr. Gin, and members of the jury,” began the presider, “let me remind you that this case will be judged; or “should” be judged, the old fashioned way; by the preponderance of the evidence.” Turning to the twelve. “Ladies and gentlemen, I adjure you to not be influenced by the celebrity attached to this endeavor.  When all is said and done, the frills and the finish and finery mean…nothing.  Yours is a solemn obligation to be impartial.  Yours is the duty to not be swayed by non-essentials.  Our goal is the truth.  And, I’m sure you agree, we dare not let the truth be defined by anything less than what the evidence…reveals.”
_______

Just an old saw.  I watched some of our notable experts--the crème de la crème of higher education--tear into the famous real-estate mogul, Donald Trump, because he dare ask the simple question, “Where is the President’s birth certificate.”  These, our self-appointed mouthpieces, deride the political upstart because the elite--on the left and right--have decided that the actual document is…unnecessary.  And, since they deem it so, to actually demand evidence (or at least a valid explanation as to it’s absence [like, “we lost it,” or “the dog ate it”] is portrayed as backward, uncouth, ignorant, mid-American.

A little reminder:  those who speak for us; those with the microphone; they, whoever they are, did not bring us here.  They (and we) did not earn this United States and, frankly, I’m sick of their presumption that they “know” what’s best.  That their regurgitation of secular University speak in some way carries the weight of the Giants.  The giants through whom this republic was birthed.  The giants who knew enough to begin their quest for freedom and wisdom at a patriot’s alter; a place of contrition, and submission, and consecration. A place so very different from the man exalting shrines that we now give allegiance and import.

While I’m at it; following is a poem dedicated to those who couch their anti-life beliefs and desires and actions in the frilly words of the disingenuous, or if not that, the words of …the deceived.

Women’s Healthcare?
(by R.P.Edwards)

“Healthcare?”
Mused the pseudo-doc
His latex dripping red
“A gentle word to soothe and glaze
Translation? Babies…dead.”

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