When reading about these terrorist types who like to bomb things for no good reason, and would rather America replace its culture of boobs and Cuervo with one of burqa'd women and public beheadings, one often hears so-called "experts," ie jackasses with a master's and a cluttered office at a "think-tank" wherein to hang their rumpled hat talking about "the Arab street." This apparently is a place where Arabs talk about how they're feeling about America to American journalists, who dutifully write it down on their iBooks once they're safely back at the Bethesda Coffee Bean, and e-mail it off to The Weekly Standard or what have you, then dart off to pick up their offspring at lacrosse camp.
Anyway, we offer a report of our own from the street, the street of Clinomania readers, which it turns out is the 10 between LA and Anaheim. On this street, opinion seems to be that Jack's blo' is fallen on stern times. This job of his is getting in the way of more vivid writing on such subjects as the film industry and the humours of whiskey. True, all seem to enjoy his latest romantic liason, an Entente Cordiale of sorts. One might say a French cooter served as Lafayette to a beleagured Continental Army that was Jack's member. But the strum-und-drang about his unfortunate employment situation is getting a bit too heady for the masses. After all, we read the damn thing for the same reason we presume he writes it - sweet relief!
Let us hope that Jack's misery and tedium is lessened. We wish this not merely while wearing our Christian Fellowship hat (a beret with a tassel), but while wearing our Literary Critic hat (a fetching boater number a la Buster Keaton). Back to wit! Down with workplace blitherblather and sour-toothing.
