The Beck Week That Wasn’t; The Hospital Edition
Reported by Guest Blogger - November 8, 2009 -
Guest blogged by Aunty Em
Some weird mojo happened on the Long March to Friday on the Glenn Beck Pogrom this week. He was attacked by his own appendix and he didn’t make it.
Oh, no! I don’t mean that he died, as this report from The Onion makes abundantly clear.
Ironically, on Wednesday, just as the Right Wing backlash to that silly piece of innertube juvenility was picking up speed, Glenn Beck began to feel ill while doing his version of Radio Drama Theatre. During a commercial break he begged off,and high-tailed his chubby ass off to “an undisclosed hospital,” where he had an emergency appendectomy.
When you’re the boy that cried “Frog,” isn’t it just a little embarrassing that “some people say” (me and the guys on the patio at the local coffee joint so far) that we want to see the admittance records before we’ll believe it? Why won’t Blenn Gecko release his hospital records? Aunty Em is just asking the tough questions that no one else will. I’ll get a Red Phone if necessary.
[Getting serious: I hereby predict that he WILL release those records eventually to rail against Health Care and waste. It’s a no-brainer and, well, so is he.]
Having to hot foot it to the hospital meant that all Becky promised on Monday to have revealed by Friday went unfulfilled. Since that’s often the case, his appendix only continued the pattern we’ve witnessed before.
But let’s back up. Monday had the Becketeer in full thin-skinned rebuttal to a column last weekend by Frank Rick of the New York Times. Titled “The G.O.P. Stalinists Invade Upstate New York,” Rich made the mistake of referencing Everybody’s Favourite Tee Vee Funhouse Host™:
The battle for upstate New York confirms just how swiftly the right has devolved into a wacky, paranoid cult that is as eager to eat its own as it is to destroy Obama. The movement’s undisputed leaders, Palin and Beck, neither of whom has what Palin once called the “actual responsibilities” of public office, would gladly see the Republican Party die on the cross of right-wing ideological purity. Over the short term, at least, their wish could come true.
But following NY-23 will come the payback —the karma— as Rich intimates in the rest of his article. And isn’t this rich? Karma followed Beck right into the hospital, but I’m still getting ahead of myself.
Nefarious Mojo was at work quietly on Tuesday. While his appendix soured away inside him on Tuesday, The Beckamaniac went after some of his favourite targets: ACORN, Andy Stern, and the SEIU.
Less than 24 hours later Beck found himself hooked up to IVs and attended by nurses who belong to New York's Local 1199, United Healthcare Workers East, a guild that falls under the Service Employees International Union, more commonly known as the SEIU. Now THAT’S karma. And pretty funny.
One presumes Beckteria got the best care possible at this undisclosed hospital. Not because he can afford the best Health Care his money can buy. No, he’ll get the best care because everyone knows about the professionalism and dedication of nurses. Go into any hospital or doctor’s office and you’ll find that nurses generally run things, quietly behind the scenes, to keep the system ticking over with a maximum of efficiency.
I thought it probable that even the myopic Beckster would be able to see this. However, by Thursday he was already tweeting, in 140 characters or less, jokes at other’s expense:
Nvr a gdnight sleep in the hospital but always easier w/family, prayers and AMAZING drs/nurses. They didn't even cut off my feet!! 6:15 AM Nov 5th from Echofon
I just realized my tonsils are missing. Man, I wish I were as rich as M. Moore i could've had some of that sweet Castro Care he loves. 6:49 AM Nov 5th from Echofon
Isn’t that a scream? No? Then blame it on the drugs he’s taking.
If the nurses are smart they’ll wear their union identification prominently while attending to his every Beck and call.
One, and by that I mean me, is nostalgic for those earlier times when people didn’t tweet their hospital thoughts. It was only a few short years ago that if you were an asshole and had an operation on your asshole you went on YouTube and talked about it. I’m still hoping we’ll get video from Beck’s bedside at the hospital, but we may have to wait for his return to see it. I, for one, can’t wait. Judge Napolitano simply doesn’t do it for me.
Since the week was truncated, and I tuned out The Judge, it’s hard to know what conspiracies were not uncovered and exposed. Without Glenn Beck to “connect the dots,” the vast population of the United States has been wandering aimlessly, unable to recognize the traitors, Communists, Marxists, Maoists, Socialists and scallywags that have taken over the White House. You can see the blank look in their eyes.
However, a truncated week doesn’t mean I have I don’t have something to write about. These days Beck is ubiquitous. If he’s not popping up on one Faux Noise program or another, than he’s the subject of an Op Ed piece in a local newspaper, or even on some obscure Letters to the Editors page. It’s hard to escape him.
Recently one of the boys on the patio at the local coffee place heard I was writing about Glenn Beck.
“Great!” he said. “It’s a growth industry and you’re in on the ground floor.”
A most depressing thought. Maybe that’s my karma.
Yet, I have a fascination for Beck that transcends tee vee and, best to illustrate it, let me tell you a little story about my childhood. Stop fidgeting, children, and cross your legs. That’s right. Stop chewing that gum.
Okay, as you may know I grew up in Detroit and hit my teens in 1965, just so you understand the era. Woodward Avenue is the city’s main thoroughfare dividing east Detroit from west Detroit. It begins at the Detroit River and runs on a northwest angle past 8 Mile Road, the city limits, and well beyond into the suburbs. While in the city it’s a fairly normal street, though quite wide by most standards. Once you cross into the suburbs it becomes a boulevard, with a large grassy island in the middle separating opposing lanes of traffic.
Because of its majestic feel, I always loved when we drove up Woodward. At 12 Mile Road, on the northeast corner <>, stands a church that attracted my attention even as a Jewish child. It’s just so beautiful despite, or because of, the iconography. The National Shrine of the Little Flower really is a gorgeous building
On the opposite corner sprawls Roseland Park Cemetery. I mention this graveyard for one reason: whenever we passed this corner some of my older relatives would spit a “patooey” as we crossed 12 Mile. Because some of the older Jews in my family still held Old World values and superstitions, I had always assumed it was some curse to protect against the dead.
It was only years later, when I began to understand both architecture and politics, did I come to learn that this monument to Jesus Christ at the Shrine of the Little Flower was also a monument and a shrine to, and built by, Father Charles Coughlin, one of the most rabid anti-Semites to ever have his own radio show. At his height he is said to have had 40 million listeners. (Famously, Loofah Lad O’Reilly was once scientifically compared to Charlie the Man of God and it was determined that Mr. Falafel is a bigger demagogue.)
My relatives weren’t spitting as a protection from dead people. There were spitting and cursing the memory of the bad mojo, the cosmic karma, that Father Coughlin represented. A full thirty years after the fact, long after his evil had been silenced, my relatives were still cursing his name and his church.
One, and by that I mean me again, wonders if this will be Glenn Beck’s ultimate karma.
With all my love,
P.S. Find me on facebook and I’ll friend you.