TAXICAB CONFABULATIONS

(with Pegger Nooner)

By Guest Contributor

The Farmer

Celebrated Dada author and diviner of notions, Peggy Noonan, reveals to viewers the intimate thoughts of unwary fares as they motor along with her, in the her magic taxicab, through the busy streets of the nations capitol. This week, Peggy channels the convictions of an aging Republican supply-sider couple visiting from Charlotte North Carolina, who silently long for the bygone halcyon days of right wing latin American death squads, Jim and Tammi’s waterslide and the lost splenders of the Shining City giftshop on the Hill.

Next in the cab is a black couple from Baltimore, who reveal to Peggy, through a series of psychic gospel rhythmns, their soul deep regrets at ever having heard of that philanderer priest Jesse Jackson or Tavis Smiley or the NAACP, and their quiet agonized yearning for the buccolic lost splender of the plantation porch swing.

Next Peggy mirrors for us the supressed regrets of an old hippy who wrestles with horrific naked lunch flashback nightmares of long ago candlelight peace vigils and lurid fleeting Hollywood images of a scantily clad tattooed Goldie Hawn wiggling around like a distempered sex-viperess on the Rowan and Martin Show.

Peggy excitedly babble-channels the expectations of a yet unborn child when an unwed nineteen year old lesbian playwright enters the cab and alarms Peggy with the opinion that Bill Bennett is a fat old patent leather busybody pecksniff with tiny feet and big old stupid sanctimonious puritanical morality fetish. Peggy becomes unglued when the young woman’s twenty year old blonde haired girlfriend from Lincoln Nebraska begins recounting their previous summer adventures bartending at the Pied Piper in Provincetown and their brief encounter with arch media blog-feind Andrew Sullivan and his French sailor-friend who were slobbering over garlic knots in front of Spritus Pizza at 3 am. Now clearly distressed and half crazed with the haunting shrieks and tortured wails of long ago buried Daughters of the American Revolution chickenhawk dinners Peggy unloads the giggling Sapphics in front of the Washington Memorial, takes a couple of swigs of Old Gipper, points her cab at the sniper alley I-66 Western road… and careens through the early autumn night toward an undisclosed secret destination in Fort Royal Maryland.

I have no idea what happened in Fort Royal. My psychic eye has gone dark. I hope the Peggy is ok, all alone out there in the wilds of the Shenandoah, with the roving Marxist wolves of labor and the bong pirates and the camo-hillbillies for a better whup-ass Jesus. We’re praying for you Peggy. Praying like jerkers in the service of the Reign of our Sovereign Lord, Rove Inc., Texas and Kennebunkport the forty first, and of Crawford the forty third. Anno Domini, 2003. (or whatever)

And, casting about for you, with our minds eye.