Although you mourn the decay of the English language, all’s not lost. There’s some good news.  Americans still understand how to use words creatively and ingeniously, especially to sway someone’s opinion. Of course, no one maneuvers language better than the sitting President. He may miss the proper use of a pronoun here or there, but he masterfully hypnotizes millions of groveling subjects. You might say groveling has become a lucrative occupation in the land of Entitlement. In the business community, professional marketers who on the one hand struggle to parse a sentence also invent new words and find new ways to sway minds and hearts. So yes, all’s not lost. Our pristine language may be dying but the imaginative use of words flourishes as never before. By far, the best example of word play permeates both the boardroom and the bedroom. That word, or term, is Pro-Choice. Neat expression, don’t you think? Has a nice ring. Engenders feelings of self-determination, integrity, liberty, freedom, etc.  In the annals of political discourse, perhaps no word manipulation has ever been as artful. Because, in reality, Pro-Choice is what’s known as a euphemism (affectation, trick, false show). However grim it may be, the correct term is Pro-Death. You’re not the least interested in debating all the ins and outs of Roe v. Wade.  You simply want to expose the creative use of a single word to make a landmark case. If one group in society is Pro-Life, the opposing group must, by definition, be Pro-Death. Seems reasonable. The debate over this issue is futile and should be abandoned by leaving governments out of it. But something has been nagging you for years. If society decides it’s OK to kill a fetus (oops, you should say, “to end a pregnancy”), there also should be some legal provision for a parent to kill a child that hasn’t reached some magic age of independence; that is, when it can walk, talk, etc. Infants — even two-year-old’s — are as helpless and useless as they were in the womb; so to be fair, if a mother is inclined to abort a life in the womb, why should this authority not extend beyond the womb? In the real world, some women regret abortions after the fact; in other cases, women regret giving birth after the fact. In reality, therefore, Pro-Death is just a matter of timing. Millions of people despise Casey Anthony for terminating the life of her daughter, when in fact she just waited too long to realize she was Pro-Death. Scott Peterson didn’t want the burden of offspring. Fair enough. He should have been charged with the murder of his wife; but as a potential parent, the death of the fetus was merely a late-term abortion, in keeping with Pro-Death. If a mother gets a pass on premeditated abortion, shouldn’t a father? Parents do “own” their offspring, do they not? Or, let’s see, is there something in the Constitution about “the right to life?”  All this reminds you of a conversation between Josey and Ten Bears:
Josey: That’s my word of life.
Ten Bears: And your word of death?
Josey: It’s here in my pistols, there in your rifles. I’m here for either one.
Ten Bears: These things you say we will have, we already have.
Josey: That’s true. I ain’t promising you nothin’ extra. I’m just giving you life and you’re giving me life. And I’m saying that men can live together without butchering one another.
Ten Bears: “ . . . .The words of Ten Bears carries the same iron of life and death. It is good that warriors such as we meet in the struggle of life… or death. It shall be life.
You believe life is precious. You do, don’t you? Don’t you?

You vowed repeatedly you would never waste your time with the uppity nuptials across the pond. In good conscience, how could you? All gussied up, the aristocracy posed before the cameras, accentuating their privileged station and the unapproachable abyss between them and commoners worldwide. While millions wallow in misery across vast continents, while terrorism kills and maims and while tyranny reigns, the blue bloods spent millions to strut their stuff and flap their genteel gums. Now, in hindsight, you must concede that hearing the beauty of true English was worth the price of your time. And you mourn the loss of that nimble, engaging language. Some people will say language doesn’t matter. Over time, all languages deviate and mutate. Only a stick in the mud would quibble over grammar. Different generations and different cultures communicate in different ways. Leave it at that and get a life. You know it’s a lost cause, even in the Mother Country beyond palace halls. But, whether you stomach it or not, you also know that the death of a faithful and impeccable language is the clearest signal of decline and decay in every nook and cranny of any ascending culture. And as you listened to Bishop of London Richard Chartres’ eloquent address at Westminster Abbey, you had to be reminded of another speech by one Professor Henry Higgins. He said to Eliza Doolittle: “But think what you’re trying to accomplish. Just think what you’re dealing with. The majesty and grandeur of the English language; it’s the greatest possession we have. The noblest thoughts that ever flowed through the hearts of men are contained in its extraordinary, imaginative and musical mixtures of sounds. And that’s what you’ve set yourself out to conquer, Eliza. And conquer it you will.” So much for fiction. The reality is what you read in newspapers and see on TV, aptly named the “Boob Tube.” There, day after day, so-called communication professionals – political pundits, network announcers, celebrities, advertisers, attorneys, teachers, parents and, God help us, sportscasters – relentlessly rape the English language – indoctrinating generations of young minds to follow in their feckless, lazy footsteps. Multimillionaire Cam Newton says to former coach Jon Gruden: “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve did this play.” Opining about Bin Laden, the perky blonde attorney Margaret Hoover tells Bill O’Reilly: “. . . by him dying . . . etc. etc.” The Mouth of Nascar Darrell Waltrip said: “When I think about he and other drivers . . . I certainly can’t imagine me doing that . . .” So, we get the drift. Who gives a royal rip? Maybe the tiniest of minorities. Those who know you don’t do anything good – only well. Those who know it’s “by his dying.” Those who know it’s “when I think about him and other drivers, I can’t imagine my doing that.” Those who know what’s really scary — that basic mistakes in the English language are made out of ignorance, not premeditation. If teachers don’t know any better, why should students, and one day, their children? Then you begin to understand why standards disappear, how culture disintegrates and multiculturalism takes its place.  Thankfully, the English language is still spoken – correctly, lyrically, beautifully and proudly — at weddings in places like Westminster Abbey.  In America, however, we worship lower standards, a corrupted public education system, sheer ignorance and the rap generation. The dirty work is done. RIP.

If you happen to be one of those enlightened people who embrace PC sensibility and “civil debate,” you may want to back up. If you resent a contentious, judgmental attitude, don’t venture to the end of this tirade. Instead, find something else to do.  It’s a beautiful day. Plant flowers. Take a long walk. Look at the glass half full.  Look on the bright side and cherish the silver lining behind every dark cloud. Love your enemy. Read Desiderata or some other uplifting essay that proliferates cyberspace. Meanwhile, as Philadelphia officials pass out free condoms to 11-year-olds as an incentive to practice safe sex, please go about your merry way. It’s got nothing to do with you. As your government refuses to let your tormented country become energy independent, fear not – higher prices and taxes will lessen your carbon footprint. You can only go along with this absurdity. As runaway national debt terrorizes current and future generations, you’re as dead in the water as a Fukushima nuclear reactor.  In all fairness, you have to rely on somebody else to fix the problem. Unfortunately, the guy you asked to run the show is woefully suited and ill equipped to lead.  Even after two years, you  wonder why he’s in charge. Why indeed? You can study a myriad of political complexities and nuances that led to his anointing, but two words pretty much sum up the answer: utter stupidity. Any individual who voted for the Muslim in the White House was an imbecile. There, it’s said. But time out. Black voters are exempt from this defamation. They were not morons; they knew their choice was strictly racist. Likewise, give a pass to communists, socialists, so-called progressives and other leftists who would vote for a Democrat serial killer over Christ Himself.  No, you have to reserve your contempt for the millions upon millions of numskulls who easily could have witnessed this candidate’s absence of qualifications and humiliating voting record. These nitwits could not fail to look behind the scenes and recognize his money barons and other hangers-on. The evidence was in plain sight, just like it was at O.J.’s trial. But the jury – the voters – swooned in rapture at the dulcet evangelistic rhetoric, the sham, the cock-and-bull and the promises. Like 13-year-olds at rock concerts they gushed and sighed and marveled at the messianic pronouncements as if made on High. That’s what fools do, you know. They hunger for a savior. Forget accomplishment. Forget facts. Hide from reality.  And then one morning you wake up and there’s a Marxist contaminating the Oval Office, hallowed ground ostensibly reserved for Americans of high accomplishment who vow to uphold the principles of liberty outlined in The Constitution.  If it makes you feel better, cut the idiots some slack. Suggest they were temporarily deranged, disillusioned by, heavens to Betsy, 5.5% unemployment. Yeah, right. One Martin Luther King said, Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity. Under the circumstances, you have to admit you’re terrified. The leader of the Free World never held a real job, never produced a product, never run a business, never served in the military and never played Little League baseball. No one knows him. Jason Bourne is more transparent. Setting aside the 2008 coronation, his accomplishments don’t measure up to the attainments of any average American in any walk of life – a carpenter, an electrician, a mechanic, a teacher, a physician. Blindfolded, you could walk down a busy sidewalk in any city and bump into someone infinitely more qualified. Yet, there he reigns nonetheless, making speech after speech, confident that his teleprompter voice will continue to hypnotize his groveling followers. You’re terrified. Not because he has two remaining years in office. You’re scared stiff because, unthinkably, he could reign over his ignorant subjects for a second term.