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"P.S. No More Public Scatology"
P.S. No more public scatology
That bizarre entreaty appears in a 1997 note from then Gov. George W.Bush to future Supreme Court nominee Harriet Miers.
The Smoking Gun has posted 18 pages of correspondence between Bush and Miers back when they were both in Texas. Check 'em out here.
Speaking of public scatology (whatever the fuck that is): Which recent president called his missus "Mommie Poo Pants" in letters? Scroll down here for the answer.
Tim Cavanaugh|10.13.05 @ 11:29AM|#
My guess is that he meant to write eschatology. No joke (nor, since many people mix up these words, insult to the Prez's intellect) intended: I actually think that was the source of the mixup.
|10.13.05 @ 11:31AM|#
"Speaking of public scatology (whatever the fuck that is)"
I believe that was one of gg allin's trademarks.
|10.13.05 @ 11:32AM|#
Option 1: He meant "eschatology," and wanted her to keep her End
Times theorizing private.
Option 2: She cusses like a sailor, and he wants her to keep a lid
on it.
Option 3: She cut the cheese in his office one too many times.
|10.13.05 @ 11:33AM|#
Joe, you beat me too it.
I suppose 3 would be forgivable, but either way it looks like 1 or
2 is likely...and a bit scary!
|10.13.05 @ 11:36AM|#
Nope, I take it back. I just looked at the card where GWB wrote
this line.
Seems that another possibility is that Miers had warned GW about
scatalogical humor (Turd Blossom, anyone?) and he was assuring her
that he was going to lay off.
Jesse Walker|10.13.05 @ 11:40AM|#
I can't help thinking this is somehow linked to that note he wrote to Condi about needing to go to the bathroom.
|10.13.05 @ 11:40AM|#
I think option number 1 is the most plausible as I don't think
that W would really mind public poop talking or cursing enough to
mention it.
The eschatology/scatology mixup occurred to me immediately upon
hearing about this. It's an easy enough mistake (for an idiot) to
make.
|10.13.05 @ 11:54AM|#
Pooping on the boss's desk is no way to get
ahead.
Geez, Brian, who do you work for?
|10.13.05 @ 12:02PM|#
Miers' correspondence reminds me of Voltaire's line "Un sot
troube toujours un plus sot qui l'admire".
Harriet's cloying sycophancy almost put me in diabetic shock. It
shows that you have to look under every rock to find a hero in
Texas.
|10.13.05 @ 12:31PM|#
Seems that another possibility is that Miers had warned GW
about scatalogical humor (Turd Blossom, anyone?)
No thanks, I had Turd Blossoms for breakfast.
|10.13.05 @ 12:48PM|#
Of the options that joe laid out, I think #2 is the most
appropriate for this thread.
Thank-you, I'm here all week.
Jeff P.|10.13.05 @ 12:59PM|#
Three thoughts occer to me upon reading this:
A: Na na na na na na na na Scatman!
B: There's a Bill Hicks routine about republicans being
scat-munchers.
C: GG Allin would've made a great Supreme Court Justice.
|10.13.05 @ 1:24PM|#
You know, when I was in 6th grade or so, and just starting to
encounter these words, I used to mix up "erratic" and "erotic." I
think this was due to reading sentences like, "The dancers moved
erratically across the floor."
By the way, also about this time, I was taking sex-ed in school.
And one of the words I learned then was "ejaculate." I didn't know
it could also mean "to exclaim or shout suddenly."
Well, also about this time in my life, I was reading
The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. And there is this
sentence -- wait, I want to see if I can find this online, to get
the wording exactly right. Be right back.
OK, in Chapter 14, the Martian war machines are marching on London,
or the town of Woking or something, sending the populace into a
panic. And Wells' narrator says (recounting a report from his
brother):
He heard footsteps running to and fro in the rooms, and up and
down stairs behind him. His landlady came to the door, loosely
wrapped in dressing gown and shawl; her husband followed
ejaculating.
Boy, did that put a weird mental image into my head! I
thought it was an awfully odd detail for Mr. Wells to throw into
his story, as well.
I guess this is kinda OT, sorry.
|10.13.05 @ 1:59PM|#
No, G.G. Allin's already on the bench-- he faked his death and became Ruth Bader Ginzburg. I know, of course, that my timeline is fucked up but I'm reaching for a joke (and besides, haven't you seen Timecop?).
|10.13.05 @ 2:22PM|#
Speaking of, reminds me of this. It's been around forever but it's still funny.
dhex|10.13.05 @ 2:24PM|#
maybe gw was cranking "solar lodge" too loudly in the oval
office?
see tha black sun ryze
en the solur lod-ge
|10.13.05 @ 2:34PM|#
Barring public scatology means that Big Brother would have to
hunt down every copy of the great work of literature that has a
character I named myself after.
First person who can name it gets a cigar.
|10.13.05 @ 2:38PM|#
Panurge,
Rabelais and his Pantagruel and Gargantua, of course. Too bad I
don't smoke.
|10.13.05 @ 2:53PM|#
Somewhere in the bowels of the Library Of Congress, just waiting to be rediscovered, is a tape of Harriet Miers doing her inimitable version of The Aristocrats...
|10.13.05 @ 3:40PM|#
On cue:
Harriet Miers walks into the Senate Judiciary Committee's
confirmation hearings. Arlen Specter asks her, "Ms. Miers, how
would you describe your approach to interpreting the
Constitution?�
Miers, visibly excited, says, �I�m glad you asked. My approach is
really quite interesting. I think you�ll like it.�
�Well then,� Specter says. �Let�s hear it.�
Miers launches into an explanation: �Well, first thing I do is find
a fairly quiet room with a clean desk. I put the Constitution on
one side of the desk, and a Bible on the other. I then completely
disrobe, as to be completely unfettered for the job at hand.�
�Uh, Ms. Miers, I�m not sure that��
�I then take the Constitution and stick it all the way up my ass.
This is fairly difficult, because I like to use a large,
leather-bound version, but I�ve gotten much better at it. It�s
usually just the gold-plated index tabs that hurt.�
�Ms. Miers, you realize that we�re on C-SPAN right now....�
�Then, once the Constitution is safely hidden in my rectum, I bring
my cat�Oscar�into the room, and begin feeding him pages of the
Bible. He mostly likes the New Testament. Of course, since the
Bible I use is printed on a 15% cotton-fiber stock, Oscar can only
keep it down for so long. But when he finally coughs up the
Bible-laden hairball, the pages have been reduced to a fine paste
that it is somehow perfectly suited for use as decorative body
paint.�
�I really think we should take a break now, Ms. Miers.�
�Wait just a moment. So now that I have this kitty-puke body paint,
I�m finally ready for the midget to come in.�
�Ms. Miers��
�I�m sorry, little person. The little person takes the cat-vomit
paint, and begins transcribing my thoughts on the facts of the case
in longhand, backwards, using, for parchment, my glorious, naked
body, and using, for a quill, his glorious��
�Would somebody get a paramedic in here? I think Feinstein just
fainted!�
�Now, while the anatomically-gifted dwarf is dotting the I�s and
crossing the T�s, I take a moment to forcibly eject the
Constitution from my cavity. I then beat the cat to death with
it�that little fucker just ate my Bible, after all�skin his corpse,
and spread it out onto the desk. I then proceed to pleasure the Sex
Gnome with the Constitution, all the while rolling my body across
the desk, which transfers a now-readable version of the
transcription onto the spread-out cat�s fur. I then wrap myself in
this fabulous cloak, borrow a quarter from my Magnificent Porn
Pygmy, and flip it into the air. If it lands on heads, I donate the
cloak to charity, marry the little guy, and decide for the
appellant on moral grounds. If it lands on tails, I donate the
Oompa Loompa to charity, have myself declared legally married to
the Cat-Skin-and-Puke Blanket, and decide for the appellee on a
technicality.�
At this point, Feinstein has fainted, Kennedy has had three heart
attacks, and Specter looks as if he�s just vomited down his suit
pants, which, in fact, he has. �That�s quite a judicial philosophy
you have there, Ms. Miers,� he says. �What do you call it?�
Miers jumps up from her seat, gives a cute little wave of her hands
and says:
�Originalism!�
|10.13.05 @ 3:52PM|#
Please....no more Harriet Miers fan fiction. I have to take a long car trip now and must save my vomit for car sickness if it should arise.
dhex|10.13.05 @ 4:17PM|#
"Coil jokes are lost even on this bunch."
perhaps, but i had to try anyway.
i rather like the idea of gw singing along to "boy in a suitcase"
however.
"dear 'merica, i've got a boy in suitcase. it follows me from place
to place. that's the 'merican way."
|10.13.05 @ 4:32PM|#
Zam! You the winna, bago!
But Jim Walsh gets an Honorable Mention for slipping "bowels" into
his post.
Can I have eric's cigar?
Seems a bit moist for a -- hey, that's not a cigar!
I hereby move that we adjourn.
|10.13.05 @ 5:34PM|#
Brian, thanks for that story! It's been one of those days, at our office, and that helped!
Jeff P.|10.13.05 @ 6:30PM|#
Scat story: A friend of mine asked to use the bathroom. He comes
out after about a minute and says "that was the longest shit I've
ever taken." I say "you were only in there a minute!"
"No," he says, holding his hands up and spreading them so they're
about five feet apart and facing each other "it was the looooongest
shit..."
|10.13.05 @ 6:31PM|#
bago,
Shouldn't that be attributed or at least linked to the original
location?
|10.13.05 @ 6:52PM|#
Wasn't it Jello Biafra who said something about Dubya wanting to be a member of "the last generation" or somesuch?
|10.13.05 @ 7:34PM|#
bago,
Pretty funny, though it seems like a lot of foreplay for such a
mild climax.
|10.14.05 @ 1:22PM|#
I'm afraid you have a point, Jennifer.
Most men are too focused on "sex" as the actual act of coitus. Few
realize that it actually begins much, much earlier. Usually with a
trip to the hardware store.
|10.14.05 @ 3:34PM|#
That reminds me of a joke from my childhood.
How do you get out from inside an elephant?
Run around until you're all pooped out.
(Share this with your children. Remember that Halloween
trick-or-treating is coming up. They need fresh jokes.)
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