Update on my stolen Paul Robeson Pen

I am sure that my readers are as anxious as I to put this horrendous and excruciatingly absurd episode behind them, but the wheels of justice turn slowly (when they turn at all), and I am not yet able to proclaim to the world that my Paul Robeson pen is back in my possession. But progress has been made. ARE YOU READING THIS LINDSAY?--PROGRESS HAS BEEN MADE.

I am happy to report that the fine members of the Los Angeles Police Department are now on the case, and are valiantly expending the manpower and resources necessary in order to bring this affair to a satisfactory conclusion (for me: my Paul Robeson pen back; for Lindsay Lohan--JAIL!). I have spoken several times with the incredibly courteous and knowledgeable police sergeant Dennis Becker (not his real name, but I assure you that he is very real, and not just a name I got from the Rockford Files), and do you know what he told me? He told me that this is not the first time that Ms. Lohan has, shall we say, absconded in a felonious manner with stolen things that were not her property and did not belong to her. Apparently there was a fur coat; oh, and some jewels too, I hear.

I asked Sergeant Becker how it was that this seemingly master criminatrix has evaded the long arm of justice for so long. "Well you see," he explained with a weary smile, "when we're dealing with a criminal who is a rich parasite sucking the life blood of the workers, the usual rules simply don't apply. With all of the power that the oppressor class wields over the legal system, it's a miracle we're ever able to hold them to account for their manifold crimes. Goodness," he added jocularly, "someone needs to brush up on their Gramsci!"

As the commendable Los Angeles police department closes the dragnet around the bony ankles of a certain Hollywood starlet, I can think of someone else who might want to take a look at Gramsci--specifically, his Prison Notebooks!!



Update: A former colleague of mine--lumpen through and through and, as you will see, a real gas-bag--has contacted me in order to express his "regret" (surely! surely!) at my decision to work with the outstanding Los Angeles police department. Alejandro Pricksinge (he pronounces it, get this, PRYSING!) writes:

Well, well, "Fred," congratulations on your elevation to the ranks of the ruling elite. Are you surprised to hear from me? I'm not sure why: adopting a pseudonym is always less effective when its accompanied by a recent photograph of yourself. Evidently, freelancing for Liposuction Monthly is more remunerative than I would have thought, considering that it has induced you to renounce your old "principles" and embrace the very institutions of class oppression which you once denounced at such interminable length. Do I exaggerate? Allow me to quote from your Encyclopedia Establishmentaria:

"Policeman": Noun: A criminal whose crimes are legal; A sadistic bully hired by the rich in order to more perfectly oppress the poor; A traitor to the people; A parasite; A shabby fellow.

Not convinced yet? How about this zinger from your article "Puck the Fool-Lice":

"Behold the arrogant, bloated, slobbering Sepoy as he approaches, doughnut-jelly dripping from his chin and the blood of the working class dripping from his truncheon. Can he "assist" you? Yes, I'm quite sure that he can assist you--right out of a full set of teeth, right out of your civil liberties, right out (on an especially busy day) of your very life itself. Can such a grotesque figure be reformed? No more so than a viper or a Bengal tiger. In fact, in the future they might well put a few of them on display in the local zoo; a grim reminder of how bad things were in the bad old days."

Now, Fred, I'm not saying that I'm surprised by your sudden embrace of the Los Angeles Sepoy Department: your relationship with your exhaustingly explicated "convictions" has always been a bit, to put it politely, strained. Still, with this retrograde act you have officially dropped from the ranks of the useful idiots and into what is undoubtedly, for you, a much more comfortable position: parasitic pouncey-boy.

Cheers,

Alejandro

P.S.--how does the blood of Rodney King taste?

My readers might like to know that I have written the following response to Mr. Pricksinge, who, incidentally, once joined the Black Panthers just so he could get in on their community breakfast program:

Dear Alejandro,

it has been a long time, hasn't it? How's the Battle of Seattle going? Still think the revolution is going to be made by a bunch of teenagers whose main grievance is their inability to download free songs from the internet? But lets not dwell on your complete betrayal of sound marxian principles--I'd rather focus on all the good work you've been doing for that noble institution The Church of Scientology. Glad you're out there defending it from the absurd supposition that it's an even more obvious scam than western monotheism is. By the way, I just got a message from Xenu--he says "You're Doomed!"

Now be a good little thimble-rigger and shamble on back to your plush home and unbelievably bourgeois family.

Update: My sense of fair-play ineluctably constrains me to to publish Mr. Pricksinge's response to the above note.

"Well, Fred, I must say that I'm not surprised that you've pulled out the old Scientology canard--you're nothing if not an unoriginal hack. As for the Black Panthers business, I'm surprised to hear you mention it since you once told me that you were considering joining Hamas in order to get your inoculations up to date. I am a little bit startled that you would attempt to drag my family into the sphere of your oh-so-impotent wrath: If you had a family, or any friends, I certainly would not do the same. Now toddle on back to your new job as Apologist-in-Chief for the L.A.P.D."

Here follows my (alas, necessary) response to the above damp squib:

"Alejandro, go fuck yourself you thimble-rigging, time-serving, bourgeois-manque. Your lame articles in Backhand magazine are read only by spittle-chinned Stalinists and assorted est survivors. And I would not have brought up your family at all were it not for the fact that I was fucking your wife throughout most of the 1980s and may in fact be the father of one of your amazingly unphotogenic brood (can you guess which one? IT'S MELANIE!) In just one word, Alejandro, scurry on back to your miserable perch as full-time misleader of the people and leave the job of educating the masses to people who aren't waist-deep in the shit of their own bourgeois apologetics."

I have to apologise to my readers for allowing this correspondence to go on too long. After all, I did promise that this site would no longer focus on intellectual topics, and here I am publishing a lengthy correspondence which must appear to many of my readers to be carried on some alien, hyper-esoteric language. Well, next post will be--hand to heart--a real crowd-pleaser. Unless of course my Paul Robeson pen has not yet been returned to me.