Language, Limbaugh and forgetting: How would we deal with his comments on Sandra Fluke in 1922? Language changes. What meant something a decade ago, or say a ninety years ago almost sounds like another language nowadays. But I think even in 1922, Folks would have a lot to say about Limbaugh and the way he treats women. After all, so-called men, like Limbaugh and his defenders, long for a simpler time, a time when women and minorities knew their proper place. So what would they say in 1922? I wonder…I wond…

Sure was a goose of a day, and my dogs was killin’ me. I tell ya, mac, I’d ankled it from downtown and needed to give my stilts a break. So I slips into a corner juice joint and bellied up to the bar, This bo comes up and gives me the once-over real good. He weren’t no pushover either. A real grand piano, this one, arms like tree trunks and a head like a Christmas ham. No weak sister, this fella.

“Whaddya have, mac?” says he.

“Gimme a beer,” says I, thrown’ an ace up on the bar.

I eyeballed the joint. All the usual saps, and a rummy in the  corner, no doubt already zozzled.

“Everything jake?” asks the bartender

“Better days.” says I.

“That so?”

“Butt me, say I, and he flips a hope chest of Lucky Strikes on the bar.

“Lucky’ Strike means fine tobacco,” says the bird.

“Indeed,” says I. “Indeed.”

Now normally I don’t know from nuttin’, but see, I was all balled up about this wisecracker I’d heard on the radio. See this bimbo named Limbaugh, or some such, lit into this dame, name a Sandra Fluke who’s got the goods on contraception and a woman’s freedom over her own body in front of Congress. The Bees knees, she was, no weak sister. So I tells this lug behind the bar about how this Limbaugh mook starts spittin hooey from his big fat kisser. She’s a  floozy and a quiff, says  that milquetoast, Limbaugh. A pro-skirt, he goes on to say, a real bearcat. It was all the rumble in the papers. Had all the news hawks buzzin’, I tell ya.

“Applesauce!” exclaims the bartender. Just then a mulligan hoofs it in, and gives the joint the once over, sliding these thick peepers back up his long schnozzle.

“You’ll be watchin that sort of language,” says the Mulligan sternly, in typical brogue. So he comes up to me and he says. “Got a beef, do ya?”

Now I ain’t no hard-boiled guy, especially in front of a gumshoe, but I says, “Joe, I don’t know you from Adam, but see here, I say this Limbaugh fella beatin’ his gums about that poor dame, well, that just ain’t copacetic, you see!”

“I know my onions,” says the Mulligan,” and I tell yuhz, that jane ain’t no chunk a lead, and she certainly ain’t no floozy. I been around this here block once or twice. She’s no dumb dora, and if that Limbaugh fella was on my beat, I’d sure give him what  for.”

“A real Airdale, that fella,” says the bartender. “an ethel, if you get me?”

“Now you’re on the trolley, old boy!” laughs the mulligan, settin’ his blue cap on the bar and running fingers through his wavy red hair. “Why, I’d take off this here badge and step into the gutter and, and, and I’d…”

“Clobber him?” says I, gettin’ a bit carried away. “Right in the kisser!”

“Well, now, boys, don’t mean to come off as some sort of bruno, especially with a daisy like this Limbaugh mook.”

“Flim flam man, that one,” says I.

“A fake-a-loo,” agrees the rummy in the corner.

“Use to be a time in this here country, a fella beatin’ his gums about a decent jane like that Sandra Fluke would end up with a Chicago overcoat.”

“At the working end of a Chicago typewriter,” says the grand piano behind the bar.

“Now see here, boys,” scolded the gumshoe. “This here is a land of laws. What you’re talkin’ is a load of hooey. You’d do well to mind your potatoes,” says he, with a knowing wink and a sly grin, “Now try not to get yourselves worked up into too much of a lather, boys, but I sure do know how ya feel. That Limbaugh’s off his nut. That’s for sure.”

With a tip of his hat, the mulligan skeedaddled. I’d had enough too and asked the bartender which way to the john.

“This fella’s got to iron his shoelaces,” I grinned.

“That a ways,” says the bartender.

As I ankled it across the bar he calls out to me. I turned, already at the door to the crapper. The rummy was snoring away on the table close by.

“Hey, mac, this one’s on me,” he says pushing the symolean back towards me. “Besides, can’t make change from a buck for just one beer.”

“Keep the change, mac,” says I. “You’re on the level. Good folks need to take care for one another, and put the screws to them high binders in Washington and grifters like Limbaugh”

The mook gave a smart nod and waved the ace in the air. “I’ll be lookin’ out for ya, mac…

Ah, remember the good ole days?

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