No, I’m not making fun of the musical even though I hated it. Still do, too. I hate musicals because they’re stupid, a waste of time. The first one I ever saw was Mary Poppins, at the Shore Drive-In, once located on Mountain Road in Pasadena MD.
I don’t remember it. I only remember that later, when Chitty Chitty Bang Bang debuted, the director had Dick Van Dyke speaking in an American accent. The reason: his Cockney accent in Mary Poppins was so horrendous that nobody in all of show business ever wanted to hear it again.
It’s really a common problem for Americans; few actors have ever pulled off foreign accents well enough to maintain the viewer’s suspension of disbelief. In Timeline, Paul Walker spoke with a purely yank accent, yet his father was as Scottish as the Highland March. The difference is explained thinly as his parents divorced and he grew up with his American mother and rarely (or never) spent time with his father, a mellow version of Indiana Jones.
In The Presidio, an awful team-up flick with Mark Harmon and Sean Connery, the latter plays an Army veteran whose daughter, (Meg Ryan!?) speaks fluent yank. These kinds of puzzles have always irked me and yet, look at British (and all of UK) actors, and they speak not only great Yank, but can nail certain accents from different areas easily. Band of Brothers had more Brits in the cast than Americans, but I defy you to pick them out.
Did I say that I hate musicals?
I misspoke. I did, kind of, like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang until the kids started making me wish they’d stayed imprisoned. And there was only one song worth mentioning: https://youtu.be/tDPMcdd7F0A?si=6P2vtSKy8mCy73vl
But I digress.
Or have I?
I’ve actually been diddling around here wasting your time. Hurts, doesn’t it?
Look here:
You see, the original meaning of “diddle” was a verb, meaning that one swindled, cheated or by stealth and diversion stole something or totally humiliated them by wasting their time. That last part happened to me when I was in the Boy Scouts of America, an institution which, following the episode I’m about to relate, made me certain that the clean-cut image they had was one that needed shitting on.
It was a Camporee, a smaller version of the Jamboree, which I never got the chance to attend later, an occasion I had hoped to ruin if one asshole boy could.
First, I already was an asshole, but refinement and technique were required. Fueling that process was an event that took place at Friendship Park, near the former Friendship Airport, later named Baltimore Washington International Airport. In the early 70s, I believe.
Some asshole kid (with a red beret!) told me and another kid to fetch him some concentrated pigeon milk. No, I’m not making this up. And of course we had never heard of that particular dairy item, because pigeons don’t have milk or teats, which is because nature follows certain rules (except for the platypus, because, let’s face it, what the fuck happened there?)
Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed to see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon
My mother read that to me among other nursery rhymes when, of course, I was unable to understand it. Which means it scared the shit outta me, which means I begged her not to read me any more fucked up nursery rhymes, thereby prompting nightmarish fairy tales. It’s a miracle I ever dared to learn to read.
The other scout and I walked for what seemed like hours — and miles — and too many scouts and scoutmasters kept sending us to other parts of the park, to troops that didn’t exist, and every one of the sons of bitches did it with a straight face.
When we learned the truth, I began plotting revenge on the BSA. The other guy quit after that weekend.
The moral of the story is that people will diddle you every chance they get, with straight faces, with outrageous lies, without any reservations.
The video below is the Diddler-in-Chief’s latest outrageous act and is second in YouTube searches about him.
First, he’s a diddler of prepubescent girls, and that’s an established fact.
Second, he’s diddling on the job, wasting time walking on the White House roof and making any and all sane people wonder if he’s related to the platypus, because he’s mean, lethal and makes no fucking sense at all.
Third, his phone call to CNBC anchors live on the air was a clinic in how laypeople can plainly see everything he is: a liar, a cheater, a dawdler and a childish goon.
I thought it might be a false story when I saw a post on his rooftop prowling, but I promptly checked, and not only did it really happen, but it’s more bizarre than I thought it would be. I mean, I really thought it was something The Onion put out that caught on, but you can’t make anything like this up; I was born when Ike was still in office, the bastard, but I have never heard of any president fielding questions from the press from the fucking roof of the White House.
He lied about his approval rating. He smeared all people of color, saying, essentially, that they’re lazy.
He lied about migrant workers going “back home” and, I suppose, cleaning up and”getting their shit together” and then returning, “because nobody else can do farm work.”
What a fucking clown. Maybe he should have thought about that before he started sending them to foreign gulags. Maybe it has something to do with trying to get his approval rating up for real, because he can’t possibly believe that the polls are a lie.
A judge ordered work to stop on “Alligator Alcatraz,” and what do you think will happen to that? Oh, he’ll build it anyway; since when does he abide by the law? Meanwhile I have to wonder who the workers are who are building the cages. I’ll bet money that the laborers are not white. I’ve wondered if the crews were building their own cells. Because it’s that weird now.
Then there are his worshipers. Let’s face it, folks, that cult, and make no mistake, it is a cult, they continue to venomously back Trump and lash out at anyone who speaks the least bit bad about him.
If you’ve been wondering why this is so, look at what Jim Jones did. That happened in my lifetime, and I have done my best to forget it, but I can’t. The sight of all those bodies is something nobody can forget. Guyana, a country in South America bordered by Brazil, Venezuela and the Atlantic, will forever be remembered for the Jonestown Massacre, which was precipitated by “the reverend” Jim Jones, had a death toll of over 900 people including children. With his paranoia being amped up by the impending visit by Leo Ryan, a congressman, Jones was sure that the end was near. Ryan was murdered on Jones’s order, and currently we still have no grasp of why the mass suicide happened except that the reverend was coo-coo. We also have reason to believe that more than 200 members wanted to leave but lacked the means to travel.
Jones had somehow gotten about a thousand people down there, mostly U.S. citizens. When he became convinced that Ryan was going to return to Washington and give the government a negative report, he had the man murdered and his “doctor” brewed up some very lethal ingredients including but not restricted to cyanide. Some of it was injected and some of it was served in a grape drink similar to Kool-Aid mix, but another brand. Thus, we have the term “to drink the Kool-Aid.”
One man did that. One.
It therefore frightens me to think of what Trump will do when the world wakes up and decides that the idiot has to go. His brand of paranoia is camouflaged by his stupidity, but it’s still there. When the Universe decides to make up for what happened in Europe during World War Two and in many other places since, simply because foolish people love an angry leader and will let him get away with murder, we’ll see.
The Diddler-in-Chief’s going down, and unlike a platypus, his kind will vanish until the next time Satan gets lucky.
Memoirs of an American Asshole 