On the function of a Sentry in a Camp;

As they camped in preparation for the morrow, Sam and Ursula returned in conversation to True Texans, and their variously Genuine or Authentic counterparts. Ursula spoke first. "Sam, why are Authentic Texans ALWAYS wearing a Stetson?" she asked, testing him. Perceiving this to be the case, Sam thanked his lucky stars that to essay one guess would be sufficient, and proceeded to a discussion of "Call and Response." "In literature, the device of using one refrain over and over for the audience, while teaching a little at a time, is called 'Call and Response,'" he began, warming to his subject, "...then the military adopted it, and put it to good use." Ursula was accustomed to his pedantic monologue, but refused to abandon all attempts at dialogue anyway. "Give me a 'for instance,'" she demanded. "I'll start with teaching, and then work my way back around to the military usage," he answered in a monotone. "For instance; there's a famous poem in a compilation somewhere, that alternates the refrains 'aye, well, Lassie,' AND 'On the bonnie banks of Fordie,' every other line throughout the whole poem." To test the educational validity of this concept, Ursula interrupted with "...and what did that teach YOU? What do _you_ remember from that Poem?" Sam was nettled, but ground out, "Well the anthology wasn't THAT great, for starters, but specific to that poem, I learned that the Scottish can't spell 'L-A-D-I-E-S!' SPELLING is _Important_!" "Is that supposed to be some kind of GLEANING?" she needled him. "I didn't DO that kind of thing back then," he responded defensively. "It's just that the lesson I was learning was not the lesson they were teaching that day!"

"Go on then," she spoke again, capitulating. He continued at his own pace. "Another example is from that French History of Israel in the Aggie library we have BOTH admitted to reading by now." She allowed her silence to be consent, and he continued. "I think it was from the patriotic King David who was so prolifically poetic. On no less than his 136th recorded effort, he used this method to try and make his blank-verse interesting." "You didn't find it interesting by itself?" was Ursula's query. "Profound yes, interesting, well... you have to acquire a taste for that kind of thing." Ursula could agree with him there, and having established that this method was a valid educational use for a poetic license, she drew his attention back to the discussion at hand...

"How on Earth does the MILITARY derive a usage of 'Call and Response?'" "Well, that was probably an R&D contribution to military history of the Authentic Texan" Sam explained with satisfaction. Determined not to cause him need for a bigger hat for himself, she assailed his pride by noting, "You admit, then, that Authentic Texans have been around since BEFORE secession?" Sam's silence in return denoted something other than consent, but she generously conceded to take whatever it DID represent on barter for the same. "So their usage of it piloted research?" Sam decided to overlook such thorns as there were on THIS Texan olive branch, and went on. "Way back in the day, it was not always clear who was an Authentic Texan and who was not, so they had to come up a with a system of authentication. Traditionally, a Texan challenged the relevant individual with the question, 'Why won't an authentic Texan be caught dead in a Woolsey?'" This allowed for definitive identification because if he was Authentic Texan of long standing, he would know the official response of, '...because you've got to catch one to kill him, and they take off their hats to die.'" By his language Sam had allowed the possibility that an Authentic Texan of the day might not have been in Texas long enough to know the official response, and Ursula was willing to hear his explanation. "What if he was an Authentic Texan and didn't know the proper response?" she inquired. "Well under those conditions a person is allowed to give any answer they can think of, just to buy time and not excluding humor, and Texas humor is so distinctive counterfeits are hardly worth the trouble," Sam explained.

"How does the Military use it, if they allow non-Texans in the Military?" Ursula followed on. "Well they sanitize and commercialize it one step, by employing the age old process of Code. The question officially becomes a 'Challenge,' and the official 'Response' doesn't even have to be REMOTELY related to the question. They're so disorganized about it they have to pass out new ones in every camp on a regular basis." "I can see why Authentic Texans only admit their true identity if called upon under THOSE conditions," Ursula concluded. "I'll drink to that," she added, passing him a fresh, new, lemon-lime-green-Fosters. He regarded the sprites of the sweet liqueur effervescing from the can. "Almost as good as Iced Tea," he toasted her, raising it to meet her own. "In living memory of Melbourne," she toasted back. "May He and his sheila make it back to Darwin safe and sound." Their solitude was temporarily melancholy, but they were both in this thing together, and derived a comfort from each other hard to subjugate to language. It was way past 7:30 and Orion stood silently sentinel.

The Farmer and the Cowman should be Friends;

Sam and Ursula came into a star-gazing clearing about midday, and found a group of head-stones making up a small cemetery. Inscribed on the third one from the end was the curious Eulogy, "Here lies McScrooge's Eben-ezer. He wasn't as generous as he OUGHTA!" Ursula killed two birds with one respectable stone, by removing a big rock left right in the middle of his grave and sitting on it. Having been looking over her as always, Sam observed that there had been an oilskin underneath the stone; even Yogi Bera knew that "You can observe a LOT by watching!" Sam picked it up from where it had been, and unfolded it carefully. "There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth;" he read aloud. "...and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty. Proverbs 11:24." He paused. "This feller had soooo many Proverbs he numbered the numbers," he marveled. "Wonder if he got a big head about it," Ursula returned, "If it was McScrooge himself here, he obviously wasn't too good at takin' his own advice... witness his Eulogy!" "There's commentary here," Sam responded. "If a ruler (Rancher type,) uses efficiency and enlightened profitable self interest to obtain the abstract imprint of Lincoln on his otherwise abstract thumb, that very Day he will find that the elementary case of sowing agricultural product will fail him." Sam paused to breathe, and mulled it over in his head. Ursula spoke with confidence, "Whoever it was, this McScrooge feller must have been a rancher," she shared. "And he must have hit the other feller in the head with a BOOK," Sam agreed. "Just look at all them four-bit words he added in unnecessarily." On this subject Ursula was able to pontificate at length. "Lawyers and such throw extra words in just so you can ask yourself all manner of questions about what it would mean if you took them back out." Sam's interest was aroused by her discussion, and he could not hide his curiosity. "Show me what you mean," he implored. "Well, look at the word 'profitable.' If something is for your self interest, it's SUPPOSED to be DEFINED as profitable to YOU. But by adding it, the author has shared with you his own philosophical question about 'What if self-interest was somehow not profitable?' probably meaning he thinks that the word 'profitable' is a homophone or a homonym." "These 'homo-things,' What's the difference between them?" Sam asked honestly. Ursula was patient, but wanting to return to her pedagogic discourse. "In the dictionary, not much," she explained. "'-phone' is Latin for how it's pronounced, and '-nym' is Latin for what it's called." "Like a pseudonym?" Sam asked, supplying feedback. "EXACTLY like that," Ursula assured him.

"He seems a little _generous_ with his questions," was Sam's evaluation. "I'm glad most PROFOUND books aren't like that." This piqued Ursula's interest, and wanting to know more about him anyway, she asked "Give me a 'for instance.'" Sam thought HARD. He had been sharing his real feelings, and hadn't planned to be put on the spot that way. "I don't know," he admitted. "I was thinking about things like the Pledge of Allegiance, the National Anthem, the Declaration of Independence and the Gettysburg address," he elaborated. "But take _The_Little_Prince_ for instance. It's not NEARLY as ostentatious in it's teaching as _The_Prince_!" "Juicier subject matter too," Ursula agreed.

"What else does this feller with the numbered numbered Proverbs say?" she continued. Sam returned to the original document and picked up where he had left off. "He (I guess he's talking about the sower this time,) may essay to break God's curse by contemplating 'gleaning,' as taught under the Mosaic dispensation." He struggled to keep up with her interest without over-taxing his intellect as he read on with pedestrian meter. ""Despite failing 100% efficiency on the first pass of harvesting, the Jews were only allowed ONE pass at gleaning. Everything left after THAT was for widder ladies and orphans'... that's all she wrote" Sam finished. "What do you glean from that Sam?" Ursula asked to start the arbitration of their agreement on the subject matter. "First pass I glean that this feller doing the writing thought he could get 100% of the harvest on first pass; that kinda attitude I wouldn't want LEMONADE he made, for fear it'd be too bitter from squeezing on the skin! What do YOU get?" Ursula made a practice of observing the reflexive case as much as possible, but here she could not resist. "That's your HARVEST Sam, not your GLEANING," she laughed. He tried again, but immediately came back with "Am I supposed to glean from what he said all over again, or from what I said about what he said?" Ursula knew he wasn't trying to be smart, and encouraged him appropriately. "Your first clue, Sherlock, is the 'all over again.'" She left her discussion of what it meant to be an autodidact for another day. "I guess the next thing I get is that this feller's God wasn't too generous to his widder ladies and orphans." Ursula pondered on this silently for a while. "I guess we better quit trying to be farmers and go back to being 5ts," she finally concluded. "Let's put the oil skin back under the rock so no one will know we read it." Sam could not agree more. "Maybe some farmer will figure it out later," he assented. "It's not big enough for a slicker."

Poetic License;

Eventually they had enough wood for an Aggie Bonfire (if you allow Babe the Blue Ox plowed the Grand Canyon,) and took up where they left off in conversation, exercising their brains while they rested their bodies. "Tell me again why we have to get a license to fish?" she reminded him. He grinned and took a deep breath. "It's because they just don't care a lick if people know how to fish or not!" he said, laying the groundwork for his oration. Being herself conversant with the joys of dance, she made no protest, but asked "If they don't care if people know how or not, what's the point of a license at all?" "First allow me to convince you that they truly do not care," he requested. She consented to listen, and he continued momentarily. "If they wanted you to know HOW, they'd have a test, instead of just adding it to hunting licenses for free." "I see where you're coming from, but not where you are going with it," she said noncommittally. "What kind of test?" She wondered if it might be a 9 pound test, or some such thing, but was NOT about to assist his folly. "Well the fundamentals at the VERY least." he responded. "For example, what's the DEFINITION of Fishing?" Her clarity of thought was impeded by previous angling for compliments and she had no ready comeback. "I don't know," she allowed. "It is as follows: A jerk on one end of the line, awaiting a jerk on the other end of the line." he said in a pedantic tone. This time she could clearly see the value of his point. "You really DO know how to fish," she said flatteringly. "Please continue." The test could hardly be comprised of only ONE question. "What's the most _important_ thing to know ABOUT fishing?" he asked next. "I don't know." She was not wasting any time slowing him down. "To catch a bass, you HAVE to open a fresh NEW can of worms!" This wisdom was novel to her ear, but appealed to her Texan experience. She mentally closed one parenthetical comment and returned to his original point before HE could. "So what's the point of having a license at ALL?" she reiterated. "There's the beauty of it," he said, illuminating a fundamental truth of politics. "So you can fish WITHOUT one." She dutifully reviewed such credentialing as she enjoyed, and verified that, without exception, this was true of ALL licenses. To show him her comprehension, she agreed. "How else are they GOING to pay Park Rangers? They probably ought to have one for computers TOO." Sam's appearances belied his supple brain. "I need a Fosters," she shared. "And by the way, got some wood?" "I'm busy pitching a tent over here," he called. "I'll help you directly," she replied. It was getting dark.

Literary License;

"What did they teach you in Tyranny and Terrorism?" Ursula asked Sam, after a while. "Well, the most important thing I learned was that Machiavelli was the first campaign manager to publish successfully. Other than that, literature finds the best representation of a 'prototypical politician' in Cervantes. He called his hero ‘DQ,’ and he was unelectable." "Did he live contemporary with Big M?" she asked. "Not in the book," he responded. Her humor had been stirred, "Funny that DQ is now a Texas Stop Sign," she giggled. “As a dairy maid, you could pass for a queen yourself,” he remarked, certifying his admiration with his gaze. “Makes you wonder just how tall Don Quixote was supposed to have been, tilting at windmills and all," he continued. "Was Machiavelli French?" she probed. "Nope, in fact they actually have a French version of the same title." She smiled knowingly. "The _Little_ Prince," was equally obscure in Texas. "Big M must have had a Texas connection," she inferred. "But that was back BEFORE secession," he countered. "So what! Texas must have still been here,” she reasoned. "I can't imagine it's been moved." "Before secession things were just not the same," he explained. "I'll allow this much though, things have probably always been Big SOMEWHERE!"

This provided Ursula the opportunity to show off her talents for espionage. "I was poking through the Aggie 'Profound Book,' collection, and came across a French History of Israel that quotes, '...and there were giants on the earth in those days.'" "How'd you know it was French?" he queried. "It was a Biblios," she demurred. "What was the Author's name?" he verified intently. "It was a compiled work, anonymous editor, but it was useful for historical record because it was never redacted... had all the eye-witness accounts listed out side by side." Sam was now prepared to admit a passing acquaintance with the same body of work. "Probably explains why there is an Abilene, Israel," he added. "Love to go there sometime." "I bet it'd be more fun than Little Italy," she said contemplatively. "Why do you have to get a license to fish?" "I'll explain when we have enough firewood chopped to last 'til Valentines," he promised. His hatchet was sharp and she had few complaints.

Refining too much upon it;

After time had passed (and no little conversation,) talk turned to a discussion of boundaries. "What was the worst movie you ever watched?" Sam asked Ursula. "I think it was 'Return of the Killer Tomatoes,'" she replied. "It's redeemed by having no nudity in it," he pointed out. She gave a moment's thought to it and asked "What about 'Half Baked?'" Sam knew he was going to win, and felt sorry that his recently discovered intended could not have played his hand. "That one was pretty bad," he admitted, "and Tommy Chong isn't that good looking, BUT the part about the complimentary 'squeeze box music,' with every bong (appropriately sized) was practically INSPIRED. It CAN'T be the worst movie EVER!" She took a moment to make him cross a 'T' before she capitulated. "Squeeze box music?" He smiled wryly... "Nobody EVER got _addicted_ to squeeze box music," he explained. "OK," she dotted the final "i." "What WAS the worst movie EVER?" He tried not to be too triumphant. "The Road to Wellsville." he revealed. "Never saw it," she rejoined, "Want to hear the Worst JOKE ever?" Sam's blood chemistry was at it again, and he observed that this was not really prejudice, but he was DEFINITELY conflicted about hearing a joke he didn't know and allowing her to win an argument at the same time. "I'd LOVE to," he responded, encouragingly.

She cleared her throat and cracked her fingers.

Once upon a time, there was a G-man at area 51, who had to build a garage for developing Land-sats. He drew up plans, with blueprints and measurements, and after much computation determined that he would need 999 bricks. He made a few calls, but all the kilns in the area would only sell him 1000 brick batches. He even called Acme (of Road Runner fame,) on the advice of a Cowboy named Troy, and even THEY wouldn't sell him 999. They wanted to sell him a 1000 brick batch just like everyone else. He gave up before he hung up, and ordered the bricks from Acme. He followed his plans meticulously, using adequate mortar etc, and by careful effort not to break even ONE brick, completed construction with the original 999 estimate (on time and under budget, no less.) His smug superiority could not allow him satisfaction, and he stewed for DAYS over exactly what to do with this ONE BRICK. He didn't want to use it as a door stop, because this would be a CONSTANT reminder of the problem, so he finally took it out in an open field and threw it up in the air, as HARD as he could, aiming for Jupiter.

She regarded him with satisfaction. When it was evident that he wasn't going to laugh, she prodded him a little. "Get it?" she asked. Sam regarded her somewhat cool-ly and explained that to qualify as a JOKE (even the worst one ever,) it HAD to have a punch line. She promised him that it was indeed funny, if only he could "GET" it, and decided to use a similar alternate to compare and contrast. He consented to listen.

The same day, a man got on a plane flying coast to coast, with a Cigar in his pocket. It being a smoking flight he was seated in the back row. On the same flight, but on the VERY FRONT row, was seated a lady with a small dog. Between the two, in the very middle row, was a lady with a crying baby. The plane reached cruising altitude, and the air-hostess entered the cabin. "I'm sorry Ma'am, there are no dogs allowed on this flight," was her first decree. All protestations that she had bought TWO tickets, etc fell on deaf ears, and in the blink of an eye, the air-hostess opened the emergency exit and threw out the dog. The next passenger to suffer her ministrations was the lady with the crying baby. "I'm sorry Ma'am, but you'll HAVE to silence the baby," she demanded. After no more than 30 seconds of dispute, the air-hostess settled the matter catastrophically, by seizing the baby and throwing it out the same emergency exit. After this extremism, the argument that the Cigar was not a cigarette was hardly worth remarking on... the Cigar went out the self same emergency exit. Two minutes later, an observant passenger looked out the starboard window, and shrieked that the dog had survived, and was seated on the end of the wing, "...and do you know what it had in its Mouth?" she concluded.

"The Baby?" asked Sam.
"No."
Sam frowned. "The CIGAR?" he asked in disbelief.
"No."
Sam furrowed brows nearly met. "Well, what DID he have in his mouth?" he demanded for himself.

Ursula cocked her head to the left, and looked up at him through long lashes.

"Why a BRICK," she explained.

Sam was unimpressed. "That IS the worst joke ever," he agreed. She might as well have been Undisputed Heavyweight Champion of the World.

A fine State of Affairs;

"I feel as if I'm in a state of Grace," remarked Ursula. Sam was open minded... "How does it feel?" he asked. She had intended a moment of emotional bonding, and his failure to be decisive had its irritating effect. "I'm sure I don't know," she opened. Sam was _as_ perplexed by this as any other feature of the female mind and proceeded carefully. "IF you don't know how it _feels_ to be in a state of Grace, AND you STILL SAY you _feel_ like you are IN a state of Grace THEN what _exactly_ AM I supposed to think?" he asked with deliberated diction. She smiled on the inside, and answered him accordingly. "We're in Texas right?" "Yes," said Sam with reasonable alacrity. He did not specifically know the NAME of the rule of specificity, but he had adequately mastered the concept. "Well is the State of Texas in or out of the State of Grace?" she asked, in full possession of the knowledge that this was a paradox. Sam gave her a hunted look, and squared of with her mentally. His strategy was to go back to some single certainty of truth, and work his way back out, giving careful attention to the definition of terms along the way. If Texas country WAS a State, he might lose the war in a single successful battle of secession. He started slowly, "Do YOU know who Turing was?" he bartered. "Alan M. of Enigma fame? Most assuredly," she replied with confidence. "He IS the authoritative source on State Machines isn't he?" Sam proceeded. "On State _Machines_, yes, but what has that got to do with Texas tea?" she said tartly. "Well... isn't the Government of Texas a Ship Of State?" he asked next, feeling his oats. "And as such, Turing ought to be able to tell us what STATE it is in?" he continued. She began to see the punch line coming, and immediately got out in front of it. "Too true, too true, too true," she compromised. "The whole Ship of State is in a constant state of Grace." This nettled Sam, because his "win" was not going to "count." "Well gal," he rejoined. "Whatever the case, YOU _have_ got ME in a state!" Ursula reveled in his affection. Not since her days at U5t, in the College of Tenets of Tort had she been so happy. "You remind me of Tocqueville," she responded coyly. "YOU took Tocqueville too?" he verified, delighted by the commonality of the experience. "Oh yeah, I had a double Major: Tenets of Tort, a law degree, AND Tympani, for my musical talents." Not to be outdone, Sam quickly returned "I had a double Major too. Tyranny and Terrorism, for political science, AND Telemarketing for a business angle." He cared enough about her not to stop there, however, and continued with genuine regret. "I always WISHED I had gone into Tourism instead," he admitted. "A TRIPLE Major would have OVER COMMITTED you," she retorted. "It was too EXPENSIVE," was his rationalization. She changed the subject (as a woman is wont to do) for no apparent reason. "I LOVE you Sam!" she implored. He took her in his arms and didn't answer with words at all. It was going to be a GOOD "rest of the day."

A Venerated Offshoot of the Wrath Economy;

TTTTT – Urgent Political 5t Update; beware of Moral Bankruptcy.

Although Canada has passed beyond subsistence level Wrath, it has as yet failed to accomplish the desired level of Respect Economy observed in its nearest Southern neighbor.

In the US Respect has been available for many years (at least since the Little Boy incident in Japan,) and geographically it tends to collect within the continent, flowing downhill as if on an inclined plane. In an abstract paradox, although Respect flows downhill to US, for a nation to obtain Respect FROM US is an uphill battle. The uphill seems to be from US outward, but other nations tend to view the problem very empathetically.

To understand respect is not as easy as to trade on it. The US Fed serves as a model both for the Favor Bank AND The Bank of Respect, but it is difficult to put much stock in a Favor or Respect market, since the infrastructure has no ideological rubber tree.

To make deposits in the Bank of Respect, one has only to work very hard in absence of recognition. Over time, small deposits such as thanking others SINCERELY for merely doing their job, following up in a polite and timely manner, or normal wear and tear on use of first names, will build until the balance of respect begins to draw a respectable interest. If intellectual property has been used (over time, to plant seeds of development in fertile places,) a watershed event can occur that starts a domino effect, triggered by any single good idea. This idea works by being brought to the attention of a person who independently Commands large amounts of Respect (see more on Commanding Respect below.) Under these conditions (a small percentage of the time,) that individual will demand to see ALL ideas this hapless farmer has planted within the system all at once (to compare and contrast their value.) This invariably results in a meteoric rise to fame, with limelight and burnout associated; the only thing that can salvage so much as a meteorite out of this inferno of attention is another common bureaucratic effect - the aide. If these aides (acting as independent musicians in concert, staying on the same sheet of music, over time,) water individual seeds of ideas to fruition before the disastrous "overnight success," the aides can harvest any value to be had from the better ideas, and take credit for them with their Politicos, while their Politicos sell them on broad street for political capital. The bad seeds are left as evidence that bad apples exist. Under these conditions, the farmer in question can get a very bad taste in his or her mouth, normally described as bitterness. Despite this superficial artifice, such farmers rarely become what they eat in this manner; the best example in all of literature of such a farmer was J.R.R. Tolkien’s "Tom Bombadil." His self effacing modesty is paid homage even by Hollywood elite, who (in making three epic motion picture renditions,) saw no need to embarrass him by further exhibitionism. To learn of him alone, the book "The Fellowship of the Ring" tells his part in its entirety before Merry and Pippin even get to the Inn where Frodo meets Strider. Just as Bombadil was not defined by bitterness, random historical farmers who have avoided the crucible of stardom usually come to thank their lucky stars, and otherwise refuse to be unhappy; Patriotism is a common excuse. Such are the observable problems of EARNING RESPECT.

Winning respect is the most commonly engaged form of Corporate Respect. The strategy here is to "brace" an individual who (for one reason or another HAS respect,) and "take" him in a forum. Under these conditions if the competition is appropriately managed ('Jury Rigging' is more common in the Court of Public Opinion than a Court of Law of the Land,) all superficial observers consent to transfer the entirety of their respect from the old owner to the new, in a kind of wire transfer. Carpet baggers, Day Traders, Hired Guns (and their abbreviated sons,) and Top Gun types all do well in this environment; Darwin's theory on the Equine species adequately describes their developmental process. If an individual in the Jury lacks an adequate supply of credulity (or an appropriately short memory,) they fail to keep up with the wire transfers, and fall behind on payments. DISRESPECT has its _Price_.

The most spectacular form of respect is that of those who simply command it. It is MISSION CRITICAL to understand that this CANNOT be done by creative application of the imperative voice. Generals have accomplished this with historical regularity, although books on how to do so are closely guarded secrets. For more info on authoritative rumor, see the Faustian movie, "The Ninth Gate." Other than Generals, I can't name classes of individuals who Command Respect with any predictability. It is done by those who can.

In "THE SYSTEM," Respect is used for currency, such as any Political Capital would be; relevant regulating authorities refuse service until minimum requirements have been met. If those, who are accustomed to trading _WON_Respect_ about, come into such positions, I surmise that the effect results from a vicious cycle of Respect Inflation. Traditionally, if you hate an individual in "THE SYSTEM," and don't want to pay him Respect, deposits made solely in the name of his Office are allowed.

A major advocate that the Respect System is in disrepair (and in need of infrastructure investment) was a comedian named Rodney Dangerfield. I was not able to attend his funeral, but assume he also broke even, rejoining the Respect ecosystem by sustaining larval worms in preparation for canning. Successful fishermen may never know the debt they owe such individuals.

In closing, funerals are a good place to observe the Inheritance of Respect for almost anyone. Friends and Enemies alike gather for one last Eulogy, and balance accounts of ledgers with "final respects."

Respect once obtained needs appropriate storage and handling. As wine turns to vinegar, stale respect turns to envy. Under these conditions, the recipient typically reciprocates with commensurate jealousy, God himself failing to be immune. Rather than consider his august office an exception to every rule, one can alternatively suppose that an entity jealous of rightful possession is within bounds, as long as jealousy does not turn to possessive isolation. Here jealous boyfriends and girlfriends are continually running aground on the rocks of doubt; the precipitous solution commonly left untried is to have a deadline for commitment (a choice of one above others, not a gift of asylum to the involuntary loser, to address a common misconception.)

These presents are understood to indict the system. All Patriotic Citizens stand by (to see the relevant trial,) fervently hoping for an earnest of better things to come. The best arguments that can be offered are the incontrovertible kind, but these are rare, like compliments that cannot be impeached by pride. Happily, Semantics is only one third of Semiotics, and Arkansas has hot springs symbolizing eternal hope.