December 02, 2004
The Clif Garboden Fan Club
The Clif Garboden Fan Club
A little while ago, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” discussed a pathetic rant penned by one Clif Garboden that appeared in The Boston Phoenix. Mr. Garboden, who was mighty peeved at John Kerry’s electoral defeat and who apparently hadn’t taken his medication for a few weeks, let off some steam in his piece, delicately titled “Screw You, America.”In said article, the delightful Mr. Garboden hurled nasty epithets at those Americans who have the audacity to disagree with Clif Garboden. He memorably labeled those who hale from so-called red states as a passel of “slack-jawed inbred flatlanders.”
Well, it appears as if the good Mr. Garboden’s piece has ruffled a few feathers. It seems as if some of the “slack-jawed inbred flatlanders” are actually literate, and decided to take issue with Mr. Garboden’s miasmic ravings.
Still, not all of those who troubled themselves to read Mr. Garboden’s piffle reacted with scorn. One Vana Prewitt of Chatham County (NC) had this to say:
I loved the article by Clif Garboden. I can’t remember a time when I saw something in print that sounded like it came out of the mouths of my best friends. We have this crazy idea that the written word needs to be more formal than spoken language and for the most part, written language is sterile. Not the case with “Screw You, America.” Thanks for making me laugh at our pathetic political situation.
Oh, dear. Where do we begin? We wonder if Mr. Garboden, who snubbed his nose at the hoi polloi, had an audience as learned as Ms. Prewitt in mind. After all, she’s no slack-jawed inbred flatlander: She’s from North Carolina.
The second sentence of this pathetic missive is gorgeous: “I can’t remember a time when I saw something in print that sounded like it came out of the mouths of my best friends.” May we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” humbly suggest that’s because Ms. Prewitt isn’t much of a reader? Or, alternatively, perhaps all of her pals are slack-jawed inbred flatlanders?
As bizarre as all this is, Ms. Prewitt’s letter becomes even more unhinged. She considers the notion that the written word should be more formal than colloquial conversations “crazy.” Due to this pernicious idea, she posits, “written language is sterile.”
To which we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” respond: No, Ms. Prewitt; language isn’t sterile—that’s your boyfriend you’re discussing.
Mr. Garboden should be proud to have such an eloquent defender in her corner. Sure, she’s about as educated as the average block of wood. And she ain’t exactly a master prose stylist. But, given the fact that she would happily don a “Clif Garboden sounds like he came out of the mouths of my best friends” T-shirt, we suppose that Mr. Garboden shouldn’t be so picky.
