Political Correctness

----- Original Message -----

From: Bob Erskine

To: Don Edwards ; Peter R. Davis ; Bob Simonson ; David Sproul ; Jim Haggerty ; Don Egan ; Ed Cashin ; Megan O. Erskine ; Ron Erskine

Sent: Monday, February 18, 2008 8:40 PM

Subject: Definition

Political Correctness > > The following is the 2007 winning entry from an annual contest at Texas > A&M University calling for the most appropriate definition of a > contemporary term. This year's term was Political Correctness. The > winner wrote, "Political Correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a > delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous > mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely > possible to pick up a turd by the clean end." >

An Incident at the Hoe-Cake Cafe, Chapter IV

"You ladies from the Continental, ain't you?" Caldonius continued to smile as Annie sauntered up until her face was just inches from his. "Come on in, if you ain't too proud. Hot flapjacks. Pork chops. Bacon. Coffee so black it shine like coal. Come on in." Annie turned and faced the rest of the Valkyries. "How about it, girls? Do we eat or do we push this joint in the river? Or do we eat and then push this joint in the river?" "Ah, give the nigger a break, Annie. He's a war hero. Ain't you, honey?" Queenie Quinlan was a high-yellow octoroon whose father was rumored to be a full professor of comparative literature and belles-lettres at Columbia University. She had nothing in her possession that would confirm the rumor, but she didn't discourage it. "Well, I got work to do, ladies. You welcome to step inside for a bite to eat. If not, good day to you." Caldonius turned and walked toward the river side of the Café , to check on the waterworks and the food wheel machinery. After he'd gone a few yards, he turned to see if anyone was following. He saw Annie and Queenie and the others huddled in a tight circle. He heard a Babel of arguing. He shrugged and went around the corner of the building. When he pulled the mallet out of his apron pocket, he was surprised to notice his hand shaking. He went to his workbench, picked up the oil can and headed for the water wheel. The thump-thump of the machinery made a comforting pedal note to the high-pitched anxiety beginning to build up in Caldonius's mind. It's after midnight, but it might as well be broad daylight on the main street of hell. The rolling artillery barrage rumbles on in the distance like the thunder of a receding storm. Star shells and parachute flares overhead make crazy shadows on the ground, all plowed up and stinking like a latrine. I'm running like hell, with the zip and zing of bullets like low-country mosquitoes all around my head, searching for me, finding some of my friends, the muzzle flashes from the Maxim guns out there in the distance. So far to go. So far. Got to run faster. Got to run smarter. Jump the coils of barbed wire. Dodge the bullets. Getting closer now. Over the parapet. Into the trench. Damn! Look at these boys. They eight feet tall. No time to work the bolt on this rifle. Use the bayonet! Bayonet? Yeah! Like you was taught in basic. Stab and twist. Stab and twist. Man, that was easy. Like butcherin' a hog back home. I think we gonna be all right. For today, anyway.