The Bra Jester Encounters Dyslexia

The short answer is: by keeping the quality of the writing very low and the thought that goes into it out of it. But, again, I’m a persona, and personas don’t have jobs or families, so actually it’s pretty easy to knock out a few thousand words between ten o’clock and midnight on a Tuesday. Besides, if you find it hard to take anything seriously, especially during an election year, and if you spend half your time writing about what you would have made for the evening meal if you were a person rather than a persona, the work is fairly pleasant and not all that difficult. Oh, sure. There are times you can’t find your mojo, but who doesn’t toss up an airball now and then? I should add that the work goes more smoothly if you have few ties to the truth and little affection for it.

A pastor in Grand Rapids, Michigan, writes: “I cannot believe that for three whole years so vile a creature as yourself breathed the pure air of this upright City Upon a Hill. Have you no respect for those who tried to instruct you in piety and sphere sovereignty? If you are going to attend the FPR conference in Holland this September, I will see to it that all members of the CRC and RCA vacate western Michigan.”

Actually, I’m a just a persona. But, you know, I fully expect that the person behind the mask will be there. In fact I hear he’s arranging to play golf with a couple of papists. That might piss off the Calvinists more than anything, but you have to remember that Jesus pissed people off too. He didn’t have to spit in the dust and make mud to heal the blind man on the Sabbath. He could have just used spit or picked a different day altogether. He was Jesus, after all. So I think there might have been a little of the Bar Jester in him. Maybe even a little of the Bra Jester, assuming Lesdyxia was around back then.

But emptying western Michigan of all CRC and RCA members? That would be an exodus of Biblical proportions. I’m not sure I’d attempt it without Charleton Heston, his oiled chest, his magic staff, and the NRA.

A really good-looking woman of some consequence and influence (I tell you, she’s a moving violation) writes—says, rather: “how about we get a piece in the voice of the Bar Jester’s wife? She ought to be allowed to get even, you know.”

It is said that Trollope was dining at the Athenaeum one day. Someone at the table next to him was complaining about the vicar’s wife, I think it was, and Trollope happened to be in the midst of writing a novel that featured a vicar’s wife. Trollope, so the story goes, tired of hearing these complaints coming from the adjoining table, at length folded his newspaper, arose, turned to the table whence came the unwelcome noise, and said: “Very well. I shall kill her off this afternoon.”

So although I am a persona and therefore don’t have a wife, I may find that I am but one short stack of hate mail from folding my book of limericks, rising, turning to the ether, and saying: “Very well. She shall have her revenge.”

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7 comments on this post.
  1. Jim Wheeler:

    Why don’t you just get it over with and move to Europe?

  2. Rob G:

    Dyslexics of the world, untie!

  3. snap-e-tom:

    Dyslexic atheist: one who does not believe in the existence of Dog.

  4. Robert:

    Fear not good bar jester, for I have it on good authority that at least three people (one being myself, of course) find your artful blending of sardonic humor with perspicacious insights to be the last vestige of high-minded rhetoric left here on the porch.

    Take solace in the fact that most true genius is recognized only in retrospect.

  5. John Médaille:

    As a dyslexic myself, I am a big fan of the Bra Jester.

  6. dave walsh:

    Well, I’m shocked. I can’t believe you receive letters. Who writes letters? No one writes letters, that’s who. The people I used to write have all passed away. I still have some nice paper. I have not been able to bring myself to put it in the recycling bin.

    Anyway, I’d convey other information if I were to bother to write. The lettuce survived the so-called winter in the cold frame. And I heard from an old friend of mine – years ago he made the crib for his first born from an old cherry tree he had to take down, which reminded me of one of your alter-ego’s posts, and I cannot now remember if you two were able to make use of the tree or not. I suppose I could look it up, but presently am in the good graces of my wife and have other things to which to attend. I just wish I could get the image of Icarus out of my head.

  7. D.W. Sabin:

    Yes, but the critic did not assert you were a proflygut waste of time

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