Justin Erik Halldór Smith

Progressivism Isn't Funny

One theme to which I often return here is the ill fit between some of my sincere political commitments, on the one hand, and some of what I take to be the even deeper features of my personality on the other. I've had to deal over the years with a tremendous amount of psychological dissonance arising from the fact that, although in my actual earnest commitments I am a fairly standard-model progressive (the fat-cat bankers are bad, imperialist wars are bad, racial and class injustice of all sorts are bad), in my sense of humor I am an arch-conservative. While I do not want to endorse any general theory of the nature of humor, Hobbes's account --that humor is in its essence cruel-- seems to me to correctly describe at least a great deal of humor, and this is the kind of humor moreover that I prefer. It is scoffing, contemptuous, misanthropic... and it makes me laugh.

What passes for progressive humor, by contrast, seldom makes me laugh at all. I gather that here I am largely alone, that this is something people who share my political commitments do not generally experience as a problem. I see signs at demonstrations, or political memes making the rounds on Facebook, and they are supposed to be funny, and my progressive friends love them. But these memes seem to me to be doing exactly the opposite of what humor at its best does: they are serving to strengthen group solidarity, whereas the best humor, the purest humor, says fuck the group; fuck the lot of you, in fact.

Even the postmodern ironic strain of progressive humor that seems to be flourishing so much in the Internet age, such as Feminist Hulk, does not seem funny to me. If the Hulk were saying things even more awful than a giant, green, hypermacho, testosterone-engorged mutant male might ordinarily be expected to say: now that would be funny. But to subject him to a mash-up where he riffs on Judith Butler or something like that simply cannot have the same sort of comical effect. Take, by contrast, another familiar Internet mash-up: the Nietzsche Family Circus. Here we have a subversion of the innocent by the transgressive, and this cannot but be more successful than the Hulk-Judith Butler contrast, which takes us from the monstrous to the righteous. Righteousness isn't funny. In-group affirmation of shared righteousness is downright tedious.

If progressives tend, as conservatives often accuse, towards being snide, elite, and contemptuous, I suspect that this is because snide, contemptuous, and elitist humor is the only kind that progressives have available to them that is really funny. It is hilarious to watch some yokel Republican congressman making a fool of himself going on about his religious faith. Take this for example:

 

Now I have said that this sort of thing is good fodder for humor. But notice, it is Rep. Franks who is doing all the work here. He is making a proper fool of himself, and it is natural and fitting to take delight in that. But still, such delight cannot itself be called progressive humor, since in order to experience it a progressive has to suspend his or her ordinary political commitments, and move into this morally problematic aesthetic mode of perception that I have identified as my own most favorite, and that conservatives, perhaps rightly, see as a sign of 'liberal' hypocrisy.

Part of me wants to say that this deep dissonance is irrelevant, that any psychologically balanced, mature individual should be able to navigate a way between different social registers, at some of which delighting in other people's idiocy and, yes, suffering, is alright, and at others of which the only concern is to alleviate suffering and to challenge idiocy. Another part of me worries that this dissonance reveals that I am in fact an arch-conservative, and that everything else is relatively superficial, most likely a late-coming calque added on to help me fit in in the social circles in which I run. After all, never do I feel more myself than when I am laughing at something I think is truly funny, and contrary to the Scholastic philosophers I do not think that risibility is only a property quarto modo of human beings: I believe it pertains to the human essence.

Either way, I think there is an important philosophical question here about the way the political and the aesthetic (for gelastics is a branch of aesthetics) intersect. It's a question that seems to be of no interest at all to my progressive friends, whom I often hear earnestly hoping out loud that people will someday no longer say (or even think?) nasty, unfair, demeaning things about other people. I doubt this is even cognitively possible, but maybe there's just something wrong with the way my brain works.

Ordinarily I don't care much for the feedback I get here. But this time I am inviting it. I want to know whether anyone else has thought about this problem, and if so whether there are any suggestions as to how to resolve it.

A Notice of Mortalitie

To the Members of the Royal Society:

'Tis with much Relish Regret that we announce the final and utmost Demise, yea, the certain and irreversible Decline, which the Latins call corruptio and which, being English'd, is the Corruption or Passing-Away of the corporeall Substance; the throwing off of the Mortal Coil, the giving up of the so-call'd Ghost, the final separation of the immaterial Soule, leaving, where it had once been, naught but a stinking and rotten Corpse; the Departure, the Egress, the Going: yea, I say, the DEATH of Dr. J^us. Smith, FRS, this Tues-Day last at his Home in Dulwich, having succumb'd to the Gout.

He is surviv'd by his Wife, Mary, and a Dozen of Children, not counting three Bastards, a Half-Wit, and one that is evidently a Changeling. His first Wife, Anne, died many years hence under suspicious Circumstances, when she, so 'tis said, slipt upon the Rind of a Fruit of the Mousa Tree, lately call'd by the Hottentotical name of Banana (Dr. Smith had been raising up this Fruit of the Torrid Zone right here in grey England, by means of an oven capable of regulating its own Heat, by the Light of Phosphorus channel'd thro' a powerfull Lamp, and othersuch alchemick Machinations), and she landed, poor Anne did, squarely upon her Skull. The servants present reported a strange comick Effect of this sad Event: tho' distraught to see their Mistress so suddenly despatch'd, they could not help but snicker at the very Improbabilitie of Slipping upon the Rind of this foreign Fruit. Experiments were subsequently perform'd within the Scientifickall Society to determine the precise Cause of the Banana's comœdickall Virtù, tho' we confess it remains to this day a great Mysterium.

Dr. Smith was born a-shipboard on 30 July, 1642, while voyaging to the Isles of Bermuda. He caus'd his own Mother such Birthing-Paines, 'tis said, that two deck-hands jump'd o'er-board just to escape her pitifull Wailing. No good Fortune be-fell that Ship after his Birth either, and soon enough the Capitain found his Vessel wrack'd upon one of those almost imperceptible Sea-rocks form'd entirely of the Droppings of Gulls.

'Tis not known how the infant Smith surviv'd; some say he was given Suck by passing Sirens, others, that he nourisht himself upon the very Droppings that serv'd as his Dwelling. Still others say that the Babe, as if by an inward Impulse, resorted to that unspeakable savage Diet of which the Frenchman Montaigne writes. In any case 'tis clear he surviv'd, some how, 'til some time after he was discover'd there upon the Rocks, surrounded by the Squelettes of his Ship-Mates, by a Crewe of Saracenickal Pirates, who carried him back with them to Foul Barbary.

He was thereupon sold into Slavery, but had the good Fortune to be purchas'd by none other than the Sultan of Fez, who by some unknowable Mahommedan Megrim grew fond of the lad, and determin'd to raise him up steep'd in the Learning of the Mussulmans. He was pair'd with a Tutor, who instructed him not only in the learnèd Books of Avicenna, Averroës, and Algazel, but Aristotelès too, and the other Greeks, of whose Philosophy all the Books of the Arabs are naught but an Echo. When the time came, he was sent to University at Al Caraween, which is call'd in the Arabick Tongue a Madrassa, where he excell'd in the Study of Naturall Philosophy, particularly Meteorology or the doctrine of mixt Bodies, Medicine, Metallurgy, Alchemy, and perhaps still other Arts, e'en blacker yet.

'Twas on the basis of this Formation that Smith, at the young Age of 26, would later gain Entrance into our Scientifickall Society, when he presented before its Members his newly invented Weather-Engine, which most magnificently display'd all the changes of the Heavens as in a Mikrokosmos: Clouds, Rain, Hail, and Snowe, all contain'd within a translucent glass Globe but three Feet in Diameter, placed upon a Table at the front of our Theatrum anatomicum. 'Tis this very Weather-Globe that would later give rise to the Commerce in inexpensive Snowe-Domes, sold at Faires and before the great Edifices of all Europe, wherein Snowe is made to fall, per exemplum, upon the Cathedral of Our Lady in Paris, with the words inscrib'd underneath: Yea, as this Snowe-Globe doth attest, I have voyag'd to Paris, and regarded its Monuments with my very Eyes.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves, for before his entry into the Society, young Smith had quite a voyage of his own. When at 18 Smith completed his course of Study at Al Caraween, his Master the Sultan determin'd to send him to Padua to further his Medical Formation under the Supervision of the renown'd Andreas Vesalius. But news travels slowly to the Moorish Lands, and by the time Smith arriv'd in Italy, Vesalius (1514-1564) had been long deceas'd: for exactly a Century of Years, in fact.

Tho' he had been an apt Pupil at Fez, in his Italick Sojourn the young Smith show'd but little Promise. With no-one to direct his further Studies, he instead went in for the Giuoco del calcio fiorentino, what is sometimes call'd the Florentine game of Kick, which consists in the mindless Running to-and-fro upon a Field of Grass or e'en Sand, chasing after a hide-bound Ballon, and directing it with the very Feet past the Lines-men & into a netted Goal. From the playing-Field's Edge he was oft heard to cry out along with his dullard Mates, olé! olé!, for an hidden Reason, like some distemper'd Spagnol. What a shamefull Waste of Time! Recently this game of Kick has crossed the Channel into our own Country, and if this is not a Jesuitickall Complot to distract our young Men in their most dynamicall and hopefull Years, then ne'er was there one in all of England.

With no Master to emulate, Smith quickly grew idle, as oft happens by a sort of Contagion in the Papist Lands around the Middle Sea. The Sultan yearn'd for him to return to Fez, but Smith thought him self fine where he was, and would no doubt have idled there indefinitely, had a chance Encounter with the fair Daughter of the Duke of Modena not chang'd his Fate for ever. The Maiden, having disguis'd her self in the clothing of a commoner, was Strolling with her Governness about the City's Streets. Believing she was as common as he, Smith got it into his Head to offer her a Sweet. You mustn't speak to her! was the Governess's stern reply. Yet he, perhaps by some Moorish perversion of the Art of Syllogism, took this very prohibition upon Speech itself as an Incitement to Action, and so attempted then and there to give the Lady of Modena a bacio profondo straight upon the Mouth.

Within the hour all of the Duke's men had been summon'd to chase this Scoundrel down, and so he ran north, and kept running right o'er the Alps; and he would have run no doubt all the way to the Land of the Hyper-Boreans, had he not remember'd the Story the Sultan told him years ago as a small boy, that his true Parents had come not from the Rocks made of Droppings, but from England. So there he went, and soon was reunited with his Uncle, who had been in search of him e'er since News of the Ship's Wrack arriv'd back home.

His Uncle, the Baron Waldegrave, was an indulgent Man, and arrang'd for Smith to be tutor'd in all things Christian, just as the Sultan had already had him train'd up in all things Gentile. He naturally began with the English Tongue, which to that point had remain'd as foreign to Smith as the Arabick tongue to the common Englishman. The tutor then mov'd on through the basic tenets of the true and reveal'd Christian Faith, disabusing him along the way of the sundry Averroistic heresies that had no doubt been inculcated into him earlier in Life. From there they moved on to the Book of Common Prayer of the Church of England, which young Smith learnt by Heart, chasing out (or so his Uncle hoped) the Superstitions of the Alcoran. His most belovèd was Psalm 19, which began: "The heavens declare the glory of God: and the firmament sheweth his handywork."

But his prior learning among the Gentiles was seen to have some Value, and the Baron encourag'd him to continue his experimentations touching upon Naturall Philosophy. And so he made not just Weather-Globes, but also Shoes that fasten not by laces, but rather by two surfaces that cling mysteriously to one another, which he call'd, no less mysteriously, Velcrum; he extracted Sweet Fluid from the Indian Corn of the Americas, and propos'd to use it for the Sweetening of Beverages; he invented a Box for the recording of spoken Words or music, that could be heard again, as if spoken again, simply by turning a Wheel upon the top of it (tho' he was only able to record the Words, Isaac, you ass! before the machine stoppt working altogether). Since he could not bring the Speech-Engine to present to the Society under such circumstances, it was decided that the Weather-Globe represented his best Hope for gaining Admission. So in the winter of 1668, off he went to London, with the Globe in tow.

In addition to his many fancifull Contraptions, Dr. Smith might in the End be best remember'd for his equally fancifull Speculations in matters metaphysickall. According to his philosophickall System, if it may be so call'd, the World consists in Corpuscules onely, bouncing hither and thither like so many Trucco-Balls. But these little Bodies have not onely Mass, Figure, and Motion, as Descartes held, and Lucretius before him. They have also what Smith call'd Strangeness, which maketh them all different the one from the other. But how they are different, and wherein this Strangeness consists, Smith could in no wise say. Hence the many Accusations against him that he had reintroduc'd the very Occult Qualities his valiant Predecessors had sought to chase out. He claimed moreover that some of these Corpuscules even had a certain Charm, that some were on top of the others, some on the bottom, but not in any meaningful sense of locabilitas or Being in a certain Place. At some point he took to calling these queer Corspuscules by the name of Quarks, which is absurd, since as we all know Quark is nothing if not a variety of Curd Cheese, first identified by Tacitus during his travels among the Germanick Heathens.

We would be remiss of course if we did not mention Dr. Smith's true Calling in this Life, which was the issuing of Quaeries in the Transactions of our Society. Won't you kindly tell me this-or-that about Iceland spar?, he would write. Or, Please explain how it is that the Turks hear the hexasyllabic word Constantinopolis as Istanbul, an exclamation only half its predecessor's Length, syllable-wise. Or, Is it true what we have heard, that in the New World the Empsychosis of the Fœtus begins at the very Conception, rather than after 40 days, as in Europe, and if so, what is the cause of this difference, and how should it influence the practice of the vulgar art of Midwifery? And other such Quaeries of no Consequence whatsoever, Quaeries that matter'd not at all to the Advancement of Science, but onely insofar as they satisfy'd Dr. Smith's queer, scatter-brain'd, and bottomless Curiositie.

In his last Will and Testament, Smith requested that all but a small Allowance for Mary and the Children go to his faithfull Amanuensis, Mr. Isaac Molesworth (no Pittance, either, thanks to the Revenues from all those Snowe-Globes). Furthermore, Smith added, "Mr. Molesworth is to inherit my Membership in the Society. Although this is not an usual Practice, as Members are elected in and not will'd in, you will need only to ask Mr. Molesworth to demonstrate his Search-Engine, which will surely put Squibb's Sub-Aquatick River-Vessel to shame (sic!), in order to be assur'd of his Worthiness."

'Twas said of old that no Man may be call'd happy 'til he dies. Is Dr. Smith, then, happy? He is dead, that much is certain. His Life seems to have involv'd much Going-about, many fancifull Inventions, and much Holding-Forth upon this topic and that. But wherefore? And to what End? These are perhaps the final Quaeries that will accompany Dr. Smith, or at least the Soul of him, as he goes to meet his All-Knowing Creator, whose very Being is it self the Answer to every Quaerie e'er sent out into the Republick of Letters, nay, e'er dreamt up by mortal Men. 

Abraham Squibb, FRS

7 March, 1711

*

This concludes the Quaeries series. To read the earlier installments, please go here.

To follow Justin Smith on Face-Book, go here.

Quaeries #6: Doctor Smith His Demise

O Isaac? Isaac! Come forthwith! The clamp 'round my gouty ankle must needs be tighten'd. That's right, Isaac. The left ankle. Yes, my loyal Clampsman. Just like that.

Do you know what I've been doing, Isaac? I've been reading about comic sections. Do you know what those are? They are the Curves produced by the Intersection of a Conus by a Plane. Now look here, Isaac. There are not only Circles and Ellipses so form'd, but e'en edifying Parabolae and whimsical Hyperbolae. Some are most comical indeed!

What's that, Isaac? You say it's 'conic' sections about which the immortal Euclid held forth, and not 'comic' sections?

Now, Isaac, did you see a Signe hanging o'er the Door of my den, warning "Let no one enter here who is ignorant of Mathematics?" You didn't? Well that's why you're allowed in, you Orang-Outang! You are here to tighten my ankle-Clamp, not to out-do the great Roberval.

Now, to our Quaeries.

Firstly, for some period, o'er a decade of Years ago now, we repeatedly heard that jubilant Declaration: Whoomp, there it is! What was discover'd at that time, precisely? A great Treasure of Portuguese Bullion? El Dorado? Verulam's Fountain of Youth? In what barbaric Tongue, furthermore, does whoomp translate the wise Archimede's elegant exclamation, εὕρηκα? Wherefore, finally, did the Jubilation cease so suddenly? Was this Discovery at length only a Fata Morgana?

It is said that the dux of what is left of Rome, a certain Berlusconus, is known for taking pleasure in what is call'd the 'Bunga-Bunga'. Now evidently this is a sort of ars amatoria imported from those same Hottentotical regions that have given us whoomp. But we wish to know who would feign prohibit the very Ruler of Rome, who is no reckless youth like Heliogabalus, but a man of years and stature, from going in for such Delectations? What common plebs dares tell this Caesar not to indulge his Desires, yea, e'en when the foremost among them is to cavort upon the Bed of Waldemir Poutine?

And whence comes it that this Poutine, Ruler of all Muscovy, most of foul Tartary, and assorted Borderlands, should lend his very Name to a Dish of Earth-Apples, Cheese-Curde, and Browne-Sauce, otherwise belovèd onely of the Forest-Dwellers of New France? 

Whence, moreover, all this talk of 'Wikileaks'? Wiki, we suppose, is of the same Lingua Hottentotica as whoomp and bunga-bunga, but what is leaking 'round here besides my woe-ridden joints? Information, you say? First of all, Isaac, you know not to interrupt me once I've begun. But more importantly how could 'Information' be a-leaking and a-flowing when we are unable to receive so much as a single sensible Reply to our Quaeries?

O to the Devil with this senseless Exercise! As if it had any-thing to do with Lord Bacon's Project for the Advancement of Learning. I've had quite enough. Let's look at more of those comical sections. But bring the good ones. The ones with Eccentricity.

Isaac, I'm sorry. I've been so irrascible of late. So controll'd by the Passions. Not the womanly Passions (ut de passionibus virium taceam!), but the Passions of a Childe. I move from puerile Delight to the greatest Mournfulnesse as if for no Reason at all. I cannot work. I cannot ratiocinate. Nay, Isaac, 'tis clear. I am not long for this World.

Tell me, though, do you think they'll print a Notice of my Death in the Transactions of the Society?  Or will Squibb, that old Booby, seek to prevent it on these grounds alone, that I compar'd his Wife to the Bahama Mer-Cow lately dissected at Gresham's Caffè-House? I meant it in the mythological sense, I did! You know, the Sirens, &c. 'Tis not my fault if upon the very mention of Mrs. Squibb the old man thought onely of the Gutts and Blubber display'd on the dissecting Table.

No matter. What is a Memorial in a small Journal, whose pages will onely yellow and rot with the passing of cruel Time?

No Isaac, do you know the one Thing that might make this old senex happy for a moment? For you to massage my ankle. You know, just the way you do.

There now, yes. That's the way... O, quam dulce...

--

To be continu'd, God willing...

To read the earlier installments in this series of Quaeries, go here, here, here, here, and here.

To follow Justin Smith on Face-Book, go here.

A Query concerning the Language of the Hottentots

I just found a transcription, sent by Nicolaes Witsen to G. W. Leibniz in 1698, of the Lord's Prayer written 'in lingua hottentotica', with interlinear Dutch translations. It is sent along with translations in Samoyed, Mongol, and Circassian, which all make a great deal of sense, given that Witsen is returning from a diplomatic mission to Moscow, and Leibniz has requested of him that he acquire samples of as many languages of the Tsar's empire as he is able. How 'Hottentot' came to be a part of this is not clear to me.

I've spent a bit of time trying to track down a copy of the Lord's Prayer in San, but have not been able so far. If there are any specialists in Khoisan linguistics among my readers (as I trust there are), I would be thankful if you could help me to identify the language precisely. I'll copy out the prayer here, just as Witsen sent it:

Cita bô, t? homme ingá t'siha, t? sa di kamink ouna, hem kouqueent see, dani hinqua t'sa inhee K? chou ki, quiquo t? homm' ingá, maa cita heci cita kóua sequa bree, k? hom cita, cita hiahinghee quiquo cita k? hom, cita dóua kôuna, tire cita k? choá t? authummá -- k'hamta cita hi aquei hee k? dou auna, --- t? aats kouqueetta, hique t? aats diaha, hique occisa ha, nauwi.

I wonder in particular whether the question marks are meant to signal the famous, and no doubt overemphasized, Bushman 'clicks'? In any case the transliteration scheme will no doubt look very unfamiliar to anyone who is able to read Khoisan languages today. By comparison, here is Witsen's transliteration of Luke 21:25 from the 'Russica vulgaris':

I budut snaki wo solntse, i vo mesetsie i wo swiesdach, i na semlie Tugo, (tiesno) poganom ot cot tschajania, schuma, morskogo i wosmuschenia Kogda tschelovieki budut isdichati ot stracha i doschidania tiech weschtschei, kotorie budut bywati wosem suiete.

Now, modernizing the transliteration scheme while leaving the lexical archaisms intact, we would get something like this:

I budut znaki vo solntse, i vo mesiatse i vo zvezdakh, i na zemle tugo (tesno) poganom ot tsot chaianiia, shuma, morskogo i vozmushcheniia kogda cheloveki budut izdikhat' ot strakha i dozhidaniia tekh veshchei, kotorie budut byvat' vo vsem svete.

 I'd imagine that the 'Hottentot' text is even more deviant from current rules governing Khoisan literacy (Saul Bellow would not have liked that phrase).

Quaeries #5: The Sensitivity Work-Shoppe

(From the archives)

Be quick, Isaac! We haven't much time. At Five of the Clock old Doctor Squibb will be dissecting a Porpess at Queen's Lane Caffè-House. That's right, Isaac. A Porpess. A Grampus in miniature. And he's promised to donate the Blubber of it to whomsoever agrees to assist him. That will be you, Isaac. You will have enough Sea-Tallow to keep your candle burning throughout the Winter, so you can scribble, whatsoever it is that you scribble, late into the Night. Are you ready, then, Scribbler?

Quaery the First: Whether any have read the Treatise of the learnèd German physician Theophilus Glaubnix, entitled Alimentatio per rectum, which, being English'd, offers instructions for the feeding of the sick and infirm through their very anus. You've heard right, Isaac. The aft shaft. The anneau d'enfer. And whether it be in truth a serviceable port of Entry for e'en the bravest of Suppers, as Chops and Ale, or only for flaccid Puddings, bland Peas, &c.

Whether, moreover, it be true what we have heard, that in some parts of America the common Men and Women oppose the chirurgical inducement of abortio at every stage of a Woman's graviditas, e'en before the moment of empsychosis (which is universally known to occur upon the fortieth Day after the Parents' copulatio) wherein a humane Soul be divinely transduc'd into what before was naught but an homunculus having the outward Conformation of a li'l Manny-kin, but sharing no-wise in Man's true nature. Whether they have ever seen an Homuncule aborted in the first or second Month that is capable of e'en the roughest Imitation of humane Action, as going about in Hats and Cloaks, or playing a simple round of Sice-Deuce.

Whether there be any justice to the interdiction placed upon Marriage between Cousins in some of the American colonies, in view of the great Probability resulting therefrom of Monstrous births. And whether the Book of the Learnèd American doctor Percival Gudgeon is correct to assert, that a marriage twixt a man and his cousin's cousin yields up what is called a half-wit; while a marriage twixt the same man and his father's brother's daughter yields a quarter-wit; twixt him and his father's sister's daughter, an eighth-wit; twixt him and his mother's brother's daughter, a sixteenth-wit; and, finally, twixt him and his mother's sister's daughter, a pitiable creature: a thirty-second-wit. Whether, finally, it is true that marriage to one's very own Sister yields up naught but a Nit-Wit.

Whether it be true what we have heard, that on the Western side of far Tierra del Fuoco, Men may now marry Men, and Maidens Maidens. And whether this be an effect of their Antarctick situation, which bringeth about sundry other curiosities, as the backwards rotation of the aquatickal Vortex that follows upon the chasse d'eau in every house-hold's Toilette, the Going of handsom'ly costum'd birds upon two Feet only, entirely destitute of Flight, and still other topsey-turvey absurdities. 

Whether the Irish be spontaneously generated from the the moist Peat that covers their Isle, or whether they along with the other Keltish nations be translated from the Italick lands, which Hypothesis doth better explain their roughness of Aspect, their weakness for Popery, &c.

Whether also there be such a geographical Boundary as is sometimes call'd the 'Hair-Belt', dividing the Lands to the South and the East --wherein the Men, nay, and e'en the Women, are cover'd with thick Bristles upon Fore-Arm, Chest, and Chin-- from the Lands to the North and the West, where these Parts remain smooth and Milky on all but the coarsest Peasants. 

Whether the horrible Rumour we have heard hath some Truth in it, that in places of Industry and Commerce Men are now requir'd to take leave of the very Labour for which they are paid in order to participate in 'Work-Shoppes' that instruct them in all manner of effeminate Foolishness, as how to appreciate working together with men from different Nations (yea, e'en the Nations of the Hair-Belt!), how to respect the unique Skills of cretins and dullards, how to refrain from groping e'en the pinkest and most swollen Bosoms of their washerwomen and tailoresses, &c. O Isaac, how quickly these 'Work-Shoppes' must degenerate into Laughter and Ribaldry!

What's that, Isaac? You say that this our Scientific Society hath implemented mandatory sensitivity Work-Shoppes for all its Members, too? That I will be requir'd to attend such a one to-morrow, and that it will feature Lunch serv'd up in Brown Baggs, and optional Day-Care service for my Sons and Daughters? What need have they for Day-Care? They are home with their Mother and her Retinue of Wet-Nurses, suckling to their li'l Hearts' content like unto a litter of Piglets!

You can't be serious, Isaac. Me? Requir'd? Why, I am already reputed for my Sensitivity. Just ask Squibb: he saw me at the Dogg-Fights Tuesday last. I was seated next to some Savage Islander, whose face was blacken'd by terrible tatus, and whose Lipp was distended by a Disc the size of a serving Tray. Squibb saw me give him a hearty Slap upon the back when our Dogg triomph'd. I e'en took a swig from his Flasque! Did I wipe off my Mouth in disgust? Did I not treat him as every bit my Brother?

What's that, then? You say there is no getting out of it? O all-right. 'Tis no Snow off my Duck. Anyhow I could use what the Spaniards call a siesta 'round Noon-time. Surely no one will take Note if I close my Eyes for a spell.

Dear God, Isaac, no. Do not tell me the Work-Shoppe is to be directed by Eulalia Tubbs. The Eulalia Tubbs? From Humane Resources? That Ogresse will be the Death of me!

What? You say she has written up a List of Counter-Quaeries, to which she seeks my Replies? And she wishes for me to present these Replies to-morrow? Look here, Isaac! Just look at these Counter-Quaeries:

Whether Doctor Smith hath done any Thing of late to foster Dignity and mutual Respect in the Work-Place by 'going out of his Way' to pay a Compliment, or to say some Thing encouraging, to his co-Workers.

Whether Doctor Smith hath ensured that his Work-Place be accessible to Women and Men of diminish'd Motility, as those who are capable not of Perambulation, but onely of Tollutation, Succussation, &c.

What are you snickering at, Isaac? Do you find Mirth in my Suffering? You common Bilge-Rat! You braying Onager! I'll make my Work-Place accessible, I will. Right after I put you in a wheel'd Chair for life! 

But truely, Isaac. Do you know what I think? I think I shall have to present a Series of Counter-Counter-Quaeries to Miss Tubbs to-morrow.

Are you ready then, my loyal Pensman? Quaery the First...

To be continu'd...

--

To follow Justin Smith on Face-Book, go here. 

To read previous Quaeries, here, here, here, and here.

Quaeries #4: The Search-Engine

Justin E. H. Smith

Good job, Isaac! You've finally done it! We're in. We're in the 'Net!

Do you realise what this means? Do you? Don't just stand there and stare at me with your servile grin. Tell me what it means! That's right, Isaac, that's right. This is the dawn of a new Age for our Quaeries. We shall no longer have to entrust them to scorbitical Sea-farers and Rye-soak'd country Doctors.

No, now we need simply enter our Quaeries into the trusty "Search-Engine," and we shall have the answer to every matter ever dreamt of by Natural Philosophy, faster than you can suffocate a Sparrow in a Vacuum Chamber!

Let us give it a try. Think of a Quaery, Isaac. Anything. O never-mind, you Sugar-Loaf. I've got one:

"Whether the Engine doth know anything of 'Sexting'? Some members of our Society are keen to learn this art, but we lack so much as a single working Sextant. We used to have a fine one, until Geech the Astronomer, by some tragic mis-understanding, got it into his senescent Head that it was an Instrument for taking measure of..."

What's this Isaac? The blasted Engine has cut me off in mid-Quaery. What, then? You say I must needs be more concise? Alright then, I've another Quaery, altogether different:

"Whether Chicken-Soup be good for the Soul, and, if so, whether for the Souls of Moms, Dog-Lovers, Christian Teens, or indeed for Souls simpliciter."

Why, behold Isaac! Now we've done it! Look at this trove of Learning! There is not only Chicken-Soup for the Souls of Moms and Teens, nay, but for pre-Teens, Divorcees, Empty-Nesters, Couples, Latinos, Scrap-Bookers, and Golfers! What's that, then? No, I do not know what an Empty-Nester is, Isaac. But for every new matter unknown, I shall simply issue another Quaery! Not now, though. There are more pressing issues than your common Bird-watching. Consider for example:

"How cometh it that a Soul should be nourish'd by a Broth, and whether it be not the Soul that is nourish'd, but rather the finer Spirits of a Man's body, having some hidden Sympathy with the rarefied essence of Chicken."

Well, hmm, Isaac. This Quaery yields nothing more than if I had sent it straight to the Learnèd Society of Heligoland. Perhaps the Engine is exhausted from over-work. I shall issue it the very simplest of Quaeries:

"Whither goeth that French-Man, who seeketh ye delectationes Veneris?"

Hmm, again nothing but Rubbish, Isaac. What's that? You say I am not entering my Quaery as I should? You say the Latin I use to conceal my intentions from the common rabble of men in fact conceals them from the Search-Engine as well? You say I must needs enter it in the Vulgate of English, and that within this Vulgate there is a sort of Artificial Characteristic or Code for the entering of it? Very well then, you go ahead:

"Where to get laid in Paris."

Eureka, I say. Eureka! I've no Idea what you've just written, but my, what a Wealth of Answers. He-he, pack my satchel for Paris, Isaac! I've some, eh, Weights and Measures to adjudge there.

Quaeries Electoral and Political

For those America-Bound

Justin E. H. Smith

Hi-ho, brave trail-cutters! Won't you please tell us whether it is true what the French explorers say, that America is "une nation avec quantitez de beuffles," so many buffaloos in fact that one can scarce walk from door to street without risking a sharp poke in the rump? Is it true they have descended upon the great cities, and greedily muzzled the garbage there, as in New-Jersey's Camden, and the Dutch strong-hold of Coxsackie?

Can you please tell us also, whence comes this place-name, Coxsackie? Does it have to do with cocks? With sacs? Why does it reduce even learned men to puerile snickering? (Why, even as I dictate this, my loyal old secretary, Isaac, appears on the verge of an infarctus!)

But let us come to the pressing matter of that land's electoral politics. We have heard that all men in America have "the vote," and that this was the result of a tragic twist of fate some years ago in which "the vote" was rudely and unexpectedly "rock'd." Won't you please tell us wherein this rocking consisted, how many were injured, what was the role of the Red Indians, what the Negroe's, &c.?

Quaeries Medical and Chirurgical

Justin E. H. Smith

To all those men of science who have occasion to attend a beheading: we have heard that the head remains conscious and agitated for up to thirty seconds after separation from the body. Won't you kindly make an arrangement with the prisoner (and, as needed, the executioner), so as to measure its inevitable loss of vitality? You might agree with the head's owner upon a system of signaling by blinks, at intervals of, say, five seconds, until such a time as the head can blink no more. We would not recommend that you get rough with the head and slap it about. This was tried by an earnest physician during the Reign of Terror, who only wanted to sustain the quickness and apperception of a woman's severed caput for as long as he could by means of a few harsh blows to the cheeks. She was affronted, and gave him a bitter scowl, and would no doubt have lashed him harshly with her tongue, had she still lungs to bellow. Yet what, we would like to know, is so offensive about a few bracing and inquisitive strikes when one has, after all, just had one's head sliced off?

Divers Quaeries

By Justin E. H. Smith

To those travellers departing to Nova Zembla: Please confirm for us whether the snow there gives off its own light, or only reflects that of the moon with unusual intensity.

Hi-ho, to all those expert in the arcana of Finno-Ugric inflection: Won’t you kindly let us know how the vocative case is faring in Samoyed?

To the hardy citizens of Brasov (Kronstadt): We have heard reports of a bear that descended from the mountains right into the medieval city center, and savagely mauled an American woman hoping to take its picture.  Can you please tell us whether, firstly, the victim was targeted in view of her nationality, and, secondly, whether the Carpathian bear population has exploded in consequence of Nicolae Ceausescu’s bear-fertility policies, or some other reason?