It you really want to know the roots of the epic 1st district council mud rasslin' battle currently being waged by Dan Coffey (Cappuccino) and Vicki Denhart (Erik), as the well-mannered Theresa Timberlake patiently seeks voters repelled by the persistently foul humor of both her opponents, you might return to this column of January 28, 2010. Timberlake can win the primary with 34% of the vote. Wouldn't that be delicious?
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BEER MONEY: The Faux in all of us.
By ROGER BAYLOR, Local Columnist
We interrupt today’s scheduled examination of TIF areas, EDIT funds, CDBG grants and UEZ legislation in order to add a few more acronyms to the raging bonfire of troglodyte discontent, in the form of this Disassociated Press (DP) dispatch.
New Albany, INDIANA -- Citizens Faux Accountability (CFA) has announced that it will file an emergency remonstrance against Greenwich Mean Time (GMT).
“Time must stop, and it must stop right now,” reads a crayon-stained press release from the shadowy, selfishness-first cult that has been noteworthy in its fetish for garish “NO” signs, habitually (and illegally) placed in public rights of way.
“The city of New Albany can no longer afford to move ahead to the following day. We see no future in the future, and as long as clocks continue to move forward into time and space, rather than backward into our rose-tinted pasts, local rate payers won’t be able to feed their families with another sack of unnecessary Chinese plastic trinkets sold at Wal-Mart.”
According to city police and anti-aphorism experts, CFA is the political wing of the local clockstopper movement, one that harbors another, more radical faction responsible for an audio message dropped by aging carrier pigeon on the doorstep of a local watch repair shop, which the pigeon apparently mistook as the village of Greenwich on Thames.
The chilling message, hastily dubbed onto an 8-track tape that formerly featured Ray Conniff’s Easy Listening Hits of the 1970’s, is from a fringe operative calling herself Commandante Erik. She says that her group has determined that calendar pages must start turning backward, or she’ll “put the big hurt” on GMT and its foremost local patron, New Albany’s mayor. Here is an excerpt:
“What we property owners, don't understand is why we are being lied, too. Who should the Little People of New Albany trust, hour own absolutely positivity that we can’t desist in this modern world, or the England administration’s puppetheads at Greenwich Mean Time?
“Kill the clocks! Kill ‘em all! We’ll be young and free again!”
NA Confidential has its own spies, who tell me that when Commandante Erik agreed to a surreptitious meeting with Councilman Cappuccino to discuss the theories and principles of contemporary obstructionism, aides for both camps agreed that the summit conference take the form of a two-bagger.
There was a bag over the councilman’s head in case the bag over the sign planter’s head broke.
They decided to get together out by Li’l Stevie’s cement pond, and were led into place by their handlers, Legal Bagel and Copper D. Head. It got ugly, and fast.
“You’re in the mayor’s pocket just like all the rest,” thundered Commandante Erik.
“That’s not true, sir, I mean ma’am,” countered Cappuccino. “I’ve tried my darndest to obstruct the mayor’s plans just like you have. I do my best, and them – them – people get in the way.”
As Cappuccino gestured in what he imagined might be the general direction of East Spring Street, the Commandante spat, which was fine, except the bag had no pie hole.
“Progressives put on their pants just the same way that you do,” she said, somewhat soggily. “You are wearing pants, aren’t you Cappuccino?”
Suddenly the tuneful guitar pickin’ from the porch stopped, and a familiar voice rang out:
“No!”
Cappuccino and the Commandante answered as one: “Li’l Stevie, is that you?”
“No it ain’t – I mean, yes, it is. It’s me, it’s me – just like Ernest T. What I meant was that you fellers are gettin’ close to the edge of the cement pond. Best be careful.”
“I can swim, you know,” hissed Cappuccino. “I learned how at Bazooka Joe University.”
“Of course you can,” said Li’l Stevie, “it’s just that you can’t swim in the cement pond.”
“And why not?”
“I can’t afford to fill it with water on my rental property residues.”
Had the bag not been firmly in place, there’d have been a pained expression on the Commandante’s face.
“Li’l Stevie, you mean ‘revenues’, don’t you?”
“Aiyeeee,” screamed the porch player, “She said ‘revenuers’! Quick, let’s run for it. They’re coming to take our corn likker and video poker machines – and raise our property taxes!”
Li’l Stevie grabbed a handful of tea bags from the pickle barrel, all five commenced to running, and they didn’t stop until they reached the root cellar at the Luddite Bar & Grille.
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Mercifully, we leave our clockstoppers, both elected and appointed, to cower with their teabags in the basement of the only bar in town that still has a rotary dial telephone.
Me? I’m bullish about the future, if for no other reason than my lack of a choice in the matter.
Perhaps there always will be the lure of a nostalgic past, with its low prices, minimal taxes, simpler restaurant menus without all those foreign words, three television networks, two beers, gay people too scared to come out of the closet, back alley abortions and Sheriff Andy keeping the peace.
However, I’m not sure I want to revert to my 1983 pay scale, or to relive the bile-infused Nixon era, or to wake up one morning to find myself too young to get served alcohol on a regular basis without risking the use of a fake ID.
Maybe, when I finally hit the CFA demographic and become bitter about the senseless desperation of my life, it’ll all make sense.
Until then, I support GMT, and think that you should, too.
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