The Triumph of Billius Prendergastius (in celebration of victory over the Local Media.)

It is the Fourth of the July, a great American holiday—a time for celebration of the republic. And thus I adjudged this the perfect day for celebrating my triumph over the Star Tribune. The triumph is a victory parade of the kind that the Romans gave to a conqueror. I am giving this one to myself, since you could wait around this blog for five more years scratching your balls before anyone else suggested giving you one. Remember that this particular triumph is a triumph of the Republican period—not of the Empire, because I hate that. The celebration is recounted in this excerpt from: THE ANNALS OF DUMP BACHMANN …This was accounted a signal victory, in light of the disproportion of the battling forces and the unfairness of things—Prendergastius, with no budget, no troops, and grumbling colleagues, had finally defeated the chief tribe of the Local Media despite these odds against him. For it had been decided by the commanders, many years before at the very outset of the campaign, that a chief obstacle to the removal of Queen Bachmannia was the complacency, venality and cowardice of the Local Media—the barbarian tribes who styled themselves “the professional journalists of Minnesota.” These fancied themselves very highly because they collected small salaries, pittances, to report the news—or rather, not to report it, when it reflected poorly on Queen Bachmannia. In return for their silence, their masters allowed them to keep their pitiable paid positions; though every so often there was a bloodbath ( or “layoff,” in their language.) The terrified survivors of such a bloodbath emerged even more compliant than before in their willingness to suppress the news of Queen Bachmannia’s madness, for that would upset their masters and contacts. Thus the commanders came to understand that the cowardly and deliberate silence of the Local Media was one of the chief reasons for the mad queen’s rise to power. The commanders decided that if the queen was ever to fall, the Local Media must first be driven into admitting her madness to the public. And this spurred a campaign of no less than four years (actually many more) to force the greatest tribe of the Local Media (the Star Tribunicum, or “Stribici” as they were called) to acknowledge the extremism and paranoia of the queen, and proclaim it to the people. For it was understood that if the Stribici, the greatest of the paper tribes, was to yield on this, the lesser media could do naught but follow. Many actions were fought by the generals; media contacts were made and truths were told and lies were exposed and many engagements with the enemy were fought. But the Local Media would not give ground; they refused to yield or even to acknowledge the small forces the generals could raise against them. There were many small victories against the Local Media, but they were of little strategic value and small consequence in the province. Though few understood it at the time, the tide of the war turned when foreign kings—Olbermann, Maddow, and Matthews—finally got a look at Queen Bachmannia and proclaimed her madness to the world. Media from the greater world outside the province saw what the queen was as soon as she stepped forth from the cold wasteland of Minnesota and into the hot spotlight of television; they saw that she was nuts. Of its own accord, a small but daily tribe, the Sanctus Cloudius Tempii, proclaimed the extremism of the queen to the people—their voices were brave but counted for little with the other print media and broadcasters. And still the Stribici held fast, and would not admit of her extremism. And so, Prendergastius, without consulting his fellow commanders, built an engine to lay siege to the Stribici: a marvelous work of art to be mounted in the Citius Pagius, designed to charge the Stribici and other Local Media with cowardice and suppression of the facts and the newsworthy over the years. Against all expectation, the plan of Prendergastius worked. Less than forty days after he mounted his attack, the Star Tribunicum announced its humiliating surrender to the truth in the very editorial pages of its dying empire. Their surrender read as if it had been drawn from the text of Prendergastius’ own comic engine in Citius Pagius: chastened, the editors of the Stribici admitted the queen was a panic monger and demagogue who saw conspiracies where none existed, and that she had been thus since the earliest days of her rise. And so the Stribici capitulated after years of struggling against all that was newsworthy in Minnesota politics. Prendergastius decided that he was to be rewarded with a triumph. And it was in triumph he brought much booty before him into the City. This was the order of the procession: First, elephants weighted down with chains, symbolic of the mad queen’s party. Then, trumpeters; drawn from the ranks of Dump Bachmann readers. Maidens of both sexual preferences followed, dancing, playing flutes and strewing rose petals to prepare the way for the conqueror and his allies. Carts with the spoils of war followed, overflowing with vast piles of Strib puff pieces about Bachmannia-- ostensibly political pieces written by former fashion and weather reporters who had failed to proclaim her extremism and lies to the public; printouts of Strib emails documenting their refusal to run corrections, demands by Strib editors to keep their answers to charges of error out of the public eye. These were the arms of the enemies of the people, captured and stripped of their efficacy, now put on display for all the citizens to see. Then came bulls for sacrifice, representing the bullshit that the Stribici and other “professional local news organizations” had printed instead of news over the year. The death of the bulls would represent an end to the bullshit they had printed about Bachmann’s footwear, etc. in place of the real news that they had avoided printing for nine years: the news, never before printed in the pages but now printed nine years later, that a mad conspiracy nut had been placed in a position of public trust with their knowledge and complicity. After that: slaves bearing an oversize depiction of the Stribici “surrender to reality” editorial and their editorial masthead: the arms and insignia of the conquered enemy. And then the enemy leaders themselves, the editors and reporters and paid bloggers and other captives. They pass before the jeering crowd, sullen and defeated, for now they know the majesty of the Internet and the power of the political cartoon. They include D.J. Ticius, conservative political team editor. Alongside him trudges Kevinus Diaz, the Washington correspondent of the Stribici who printed stories of Bachmannia’s photo ops with pop stars in place of news, and printed her lies as though these were truths, and hailed her as a “populist” when she was in fact a dangerous nut. And here is Ericus Blackus, former senior political correspondent for the Stribici, weighed down with the riches of his buy-out package. On his head is strapped the huge spike he used to spike the evidence of Bachmannia’s cruelty and conspiracy madness just before her first election to national power. Following him on shivering donkey with its tongue cut out, is Kim Odious, who labored to produce a front page puff piece on Bachmannia that said much about her high heels and 23 foster children, but nothing of her extremism and slavish obedience to the national theocratic right. The shivering, tongueless donkey represents “a trembling dumb ass”--the editor who commissioned the puff piece and refused to run corrections. The lictors of the imperator, their standards wreathed with laurel. These are the hundreds of purchasers, drawn from every state in the union except Hawaii (so far) of Prendergastius’ new comic book political biography of Bachmann, available (with footnotes) at www.biasedliberalmedia.com And now the imperator himself, Bilius Prendergastius, in a chariot drawn by four white horses. He raises his hand to salute the crowd as he passes, receiving their ovation. His face is painted red, to symbolize humility. And next to him in the chariot stands his wife, suspending the golden crown of oak leaves over his head and whispering in his ear “Momento mori”—“remember that you are only a mortal.” (The whispering becomes annoying to Prendergastius after a while, but he cannot bring himself to behead her.) After the imperator, his colleagues in arms, given a place of honor at his wishes, though these two share a smaller, more inexpensive looking chariot. First come Eva Youngia and Karlus Bremerius, taking the applause of the crowd. They fought bravely at Prendergastius’ side through the years, though they questioned his judgment and people skills and told him that the Local Media was to be courted, and not alienated. Indeed Karlus had told the troops publicly that Prendergastius would “never have a career in media relations,” but such slights are forgotten on this joyous day. Then, carried on a litter owing to his ill health and saluting the crowd, Marcus Hansonius, a brave veteran of the struggle. Behind him, riding a white stallion—no, it is his own device, a bicycle—the brave general Avidorus, who advised Prendergastius to contact the editors of the Citius Pagius. Then the editors of the Citius Pagius, who ran the Prendergastius piece that finally forced the hand of the Stribici, and put it on the front page. They are borne aloft on the shields of the troops, for theirs was “the media platform” from which the crucial attack was launched. Though they gave Prendergastius no funds (for they had none), their aid was indispensible. Finally, the allied army of Bachmann foes, now millions nationwide. They march without weapons or armor, but clad in togas of citizens and wearing wreaths. With one hand they point to Bachmannia’s portrait, with the other they point at the sides of their heads and swivel their index fingers to signal her madness. Exotic animals, musicians and slaves carrying pictures of conquered lies, and signs with names of remaining local media that must fall, now that the Stribici have finally been overcome. Together with a painting of the surrender of the Stribici editorial board, catapults, ballistae and all the other engines of the print media are carried along, as well as the ornaments of a peace of long duration and of democratic opulence. Plate of skillfully wrought silver and bronze, inscribed with the phrase “Yep, she’s a lying demagogue, alright,” other household furniture, precious garments and many renowned statues of journalists past and present who had actually lost their jobs by virtue of their commitment to telling the public the truth. Finally, eight more captured elephants, because, what the hell, it’s a parade, and I’m feeling good this week, ladies and gentlemen, very good indeed. Finally, here's a picture, because dare2sayit asked for pictures. It's short, but it gives you an idea of what I'm going for here. (That's not my wife in the chariot with me, that's just an extra. My wife is shy.) And here's some footage sent in by jonerik (who is a loyal comrade in arms and really should get a place of honor on the reviewing stand.) It's from Ben Hur and it has the girls scattering rose petals, but I hesitate to provide it because Charlton Heston is in the chariot with me instead of my wife (there's apparently no way to edit him out of these things.) And there's some old queen in this clip pretending to be emperor, which I think is kind of stuck up.