King Pellinore, aka Thomas Daschle, and Sir Grummore, aka Trent Lott, were determined to settle their accounts once and forevermore. But first, a bit of background.
Grummore-Lott and Pellinore-Dash are top graduates of the leading schools of politics. Grummore-Lott graduating sum cum laud with a degree in accounting (otherwise known as BS - CYA) and Pellinore-Dash with a PhD in the Science of Mud Slinging. Here's the nut of the matter.
THE OBJECTIVE:
As they prepare to charge forward on their mighty steeds, Grummore-Lott (with the appearance of a Southern Gentleman, but appearances can be deceiving), on his trusty steed is determined that any problem will bow to his careful design and meticulous execution, perhaps enraging the Environmental Protection Agency and the various Greens, but why worry. Business is as, Business does.
And King Pellinore-Dash is just as determined with his ever-changing array of "deep concerns." His massive Perchron (representing the democrats on his side of the isle) is covered with scalps that would make any Indian of old envious. He will convince the most jaundiced (yellow comes to mind) and liberal (self-interest first!) voter. Pellinore-Dash reminds himself that he needs their votes and money to support his ever growing family of serfs (Government workers, teachers and AARP's to name just a few)).
THE BACKGROUND
Is this joust necessary? Simply put, Pellinore-Dash and Grummore-Lott do not understand the language of the other. And the judges (Government Agencies) have not the foggiest idea of how results of the joust-legislation once signed into law is to be carried out. Completely out of it all, sits the wart, aka W, and Merlin, aka Greenspan, they'll only become involved when the joust has ended and they'll be expected to make sense of it all.
Some of the Judges, aka governmental agencies, have concluded that once a bit of legislation is committed to the BOOK, aka Federal Register, it is forever and forever more, to be followed and included in all activities, regardless of how feckless (for they considered it not unlike a living breathing being) the law might have been. Of course when their interpretation is added, the regulations expand like a bloated frog or like the "tar-baby" to entrap the unwary or mind-befuddled. Or, not unlike Twain's hoppity frog, so loaded down with shots (Scotch or otherwise) they are unable to move. Not to worry they say; simply use a standard test to see if the public can understand the laws and regulations and if so make them even more confusing. Sounds simple you say; that's before they implement the regulations, and it is discovered that when Congress was describing the earth, the Agencies now are including the sun, the moon and everything in between in their "view. To the most casual observer, this is absurd, but not so say the Agencies. Alas, woe, etc., etc.,
The two combatants are ready (or almost ready) for full pursuit of their noble goals!
PRELUDE
Sir Grummore-Lott is catering up the clearing in full panoply of war gear. However, instead of his ordinary helmet-visor to be worn for a proper tilt, his tilting-helm, looks like a large coal-scuttle, and as his mighty charger canters, he clangs.
Listen closely as He sings his old school song:
"We'll tilt together
Steady from crupper to poll,
And nothing' in life shall sever
Our love for the dear old congress hall
.
Follow-up, follow-up, follow-up,
Follow-up, follow-up, gallop.
Till the shield rings again and again
With the clanks of the clanky true men."
"Goodness, " exclaims King Pellinore-Dash. "It's about a month since I've had a proper tilt. It was just before the recess, they put me up to eighteen or so. T'was before the new handicaps of McCain/Fienstein, but I shall overcome."
Sir Grummore-Lott arrives while he is speaking, and he recognizes the Wart-W.
"Mornin'," says Sir Grummore-Lott. "You're Sir George's boy, ain't you? And who's that chap in the comic hat?"
"This is my tutor," says the Wart-W hurriedly. "Meryln-Greenspan, the magician."
Sir Grummore-Lott looks at Merlyn-Greenspan � Magicians are considered rather-muddle class (er. Middle Class) by the true jousting set in these days � and he says distantly, "Ah, a magician. How-de-do?"
"Hail," says King Pellinore-Dash. "No, I mean it won't hail, will it?"
"Nice day," says Sir Grummore-Lott.
"Yes, it is nice, isn't it, what?"
"Been questin' today?"
"Oh, yes, thank you. Always am questing, you know. After the Questing Beast."
"Interestin' job, that, very."
"Yes it is interesting. Would you like to see some fewmets?"
"By Jove, yes. Like to see some fewmets,"
"I have some better ones at home, but these are quite good, really."
"Bless my soul. So these are her fewmets."
"Yes, these are her fewmets."
"Interesting fewmets."
"Yes, they are interesting, aren't they? Only you get tired of them, " added King Pellinore-Dash.
"Well, well. It's a fine day isn't it?"
"Yes, it is rather fine."
"Suppose we'd have a joust, eh, what?"
"Yes, I suppose we had better," says King Pellinore-Dash, "really."
"What shall we have it for?"
"Oh, the usual thing, I suppose. Would one of you kindly help me on with my helm?"
With that, they all three help him on eventually, for, what with the unscrewing of screws and the easing of nuts and bolts which the King had clumsily set on the wrong thread, their being metric you know, when getting up in a hurry that morning, it was quite a feat of engineering to get him out of his helmet and into his helm. The helm is an enormous thing like an oil drum, padded inside with two thicknesses of leather and three inches of straw.
As soon as they are ready, the two knights station themselves at each end of the clearing and then advance to meet in the middle.
THE CHALLENGE
"Fair knight," says King Pellinore-Dash, "I pray thee tell me thy name."
"That me regards," replies Sir Grummore-Lott, using the proper formula.
"That is uncourteous said," says King Pellinore-Dash, "what? For no knight be dreadeth for to speak his name openly, but for some reason of shame."
"Be that as it may, I choose that thou shalt not know my name as at this time, for not askin."
"Then you must stay and joust with me, false knight."
"Haven't you got that wrong, Pellinore-Dash?" inquires Sir Grummore-Lott. "I believe it ought to be �thou shalt'."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Sir Grummore-Lott. Yes, so it should, of course. Then thou shalt stay and joust with me, false knight."
Without further words, the two gentleman retreat to the opposite ends of the clearing, fewtered their spears, and prepare to hurtle together in the preliminary charge.
"I think we had better climb this tree, " says Merlyn-Greenspan. "You never know what will happen in a joust like this."
They climb up the big beech, which had easy branches sticking out in all directions, and the Wart-W stations himself toward the end of a smooth bough about fifteen feet up, where he can get a good view. Nothing is so comfortable to sit in as a beech.
To be able to picture the terrible battle which is about to take place, there is one thing which ought to be known. A knight in his full armor of these days, or at any rate during the heaviest days of amour, (no typo) was generally carrying as much as more than his own weight in metal. He often weighs no less than twenty-two stone, and sometimes as much as twenty-five. This means that his horse has to be a slow and an enormous weight-carrier, like farm horses, and that his own movements so hampered by his burden of iron and padding that they are toned down into slow motion, as on the cinema where the wheels of cars appear to be running backward.
THE CONTEST
"They're off!" cries the Wart-W, holding his breath with excitement.
Slowly and majestically, the ponderous horses (of course this is the republican and democrat sides of the isle in Congress, as if you hadn't guessed) lumber into a walk. The spears, which had been pointing in the air, bow to a horizontal line and are pointed at each other. King Pellinore-Dash and Sir Grummore-Lott can be seen to be thumping their horses' sides with their heels for all they were worth (it's called - getting out the votes), and in a few minutes the splendid animals are shambled into an earth-shaking imitation of a trot. Clank, rumble, thump-thump go the horses, and now the two knights are flapping their elbows and legs in unison, showing a good deal of daylight at their seats. There's a change in tempo, and Sir Grummore-Lott's horse can be definitely seen to be cantering. In another minute King Pellinore-Dash's mount is doing so too. It is a terrible spectacle.
"Oh, dear!" exclaims the Wart-W, feeling ashamed that his blood-thirstiness is for making these two knights joust before him. "Do you think they will kill each other?"
"Dangerous sport," says Merlyn-Greenspan, shaking his head.
"Now!" cried the Wart-W.
With a blood-curdling beat of iron hoofs the mighty equestrians come together. The knights spears in the air and then wavered for a moment within a few inches of each other's helms � each having chosen the difficult point-stroke � and then they are galloping off in opposite directions. Sir Grummore-Lott however, drove his spear deep into the beech tree where they were sitting, and stopped dead. King Pellinore-Dash, whose mount he had been run away with, vanishes altogether behind his back.
"Is it safe to look?" inquires the Wart-W, who had shut his eyes at the critical moment.
"Quite safe," said Merlyn-Greenspan. "It will take them some time to get back in position."
Whoa, whoa, I say!" cries King Pellinore-Dash in muffled and distinct tones, far away among the grouse bushes.
"Hi, Pellinore-Dash, hi!" shouts Sir Grummore-Lott. "Come back, my dear fellah, I'm over here."
There's a long pause, while the complicated stations of the two knights readjusts themselves, and then King Pellinore-Dash is at the opposite end from that at which he had started, while Sir Grummore-Lott faces him from his original position.
"Traitor knight!" cries Sir Grummore-Lott.
"Yield, recreant, what?" cries King Pellinore-Dash..
They fewer their spears again, and thunder into the charge.
"Oh, " says the Wart-W, "I hope they don't hurt themselves."
But the two mounts are patiently blundering together, and the two knights simultaneous decided on the sweeping stroke. Each holds his spear at right angles toward the left, and, before the Wart-W can say anything further, there is a terrific yet melodious thump. Clang! Goes the armor, like a motor omnibus in collision with a smithy, and the jousters are sitting side by side on the green sward, their horses cantering off in opposite directions.
"A splendid fall," says Merlyn-Greenspan.
The two horses pull themselves up, their duty done, and begin resignedly to eat the sward (That is, collecting funds from assorted special interest groups.) King Pellinore-Dash and Sir Grummore-Lott sit looking straight before them, each with the other's spear clasped hopefully under his arm.
"Well!" says the Wart-W. "What a bump! They both seem to be all right, so far."
Sir Grummore-Lott and King Pellinore-Dash laboriously get up.
"Defend thee," cries King Pellinore-Dash.
"God save thee," cries Sir Grummore-Lott.
With this they draw their swords and rush together with such ferocity that each, after dealing the other a dint on the helm, sit down suddenly backwards.
"Bah!" cries King Pellinore-Dash.
"Booh!" cries Sir Grummore-Lott also sitting down.
"Mercy," exclaims the Wart-W. "What a combat!"
The knights now having lost their tempers, the battle is joined in earnest. It does not matter much, however, for they are so encased in metal that they can do each other not much damage (And each has a pass in the coming election as they will not be up before the voters for another two years.) It takes them so long to get up, and the dealing of a blow when you weigh the eighth part of a ton is such a cumbrous business, that every stage of the contest is marked and pondered.
In the first stage King Pellinore-Dash and Sir Grummore-Lott stand opposite each other for about half an hour, and wallop each other on the helm. There is only opportunity for one blow at a time, so they more or less take turns, King Pellinore-Dash strikes while Grummore-Lott is recovering, and vice versa. At first, if either of them drops his sword or gets it stuck in the ground, the other puts in two or three extra blows while he is patiently fumbling for it or trying to tug it out. Later, they fall into the rhythm of the thing more perfectly, like the toy mechanical people who saw wood on Christmas trees or buy and sell in the stock market. Eventually the exercise and the monotony restores their good humor and they begin to get bored.
The second stage is introduced as a change, by common consent. Sir Grummore-Lott stumps off to one end of the clearing, while King Pellinore-Dash plods off to the other. Then they turn round and sway backward and forward once or twice, in order to get their weight on their toes. When they lean forward they have to run forward, to keep up with their weight, and if they lean too the far backward they fall down. So even walking is complicated. When they have their weight properly distributed ln front of them, so that they are just off their balance, each brakes into a trot to keep up with himself. They hurtle together as if they are deer in a rutt.
They meet in the middle, breast to breast, with a noise of shipwreck and great bells tolling, and both, bouncing off, falling breathless on their backs. They; lie thus for a few minutes, panting. Then they slowly begin to heave themselves to their feet, and it is obvious that they have lost their tempers once again.
King Pellinore-Dash not only loses his temper but he seems to have been a bit astonished by the impact. He gets up facing the wrong way, and cannot not find Sir Grummore-Lott. There is some excuse for this, since he has only a slit to peep through � and it is three inches away from his eye owing to the padding of straw � but he looks muddled as well. Perhaps he has broken his spectacles. Sir Grummore-Lott is quick to seize his advantage.
"Take that!" cries Sir Grummore-Lott, giving the unfortunate monarch a two-handed swipe on the knob as he is slowly turning his head from side to side, peering in the opposite direction.
King Pellinore-Dash turns round morosely, but his opponent is too quick for him. He has ambled round so that he is still behind the King, and now gives him another terrific blow in the same place.
"Where are you?" asks King Pellinore-Dash.
"Here," cries Sir Grummore-Lott, giving him another.
The poor King turns himself round as nimbly as possible, but Sir Grummore-Lott has given him the slip again.
"Tally-ho back!" shouts Sir Grummore-Lott, with another wallop.
"I think you're a cad," says the King.
"Wallop!" replies Sir Grummore-Lott, doing it.
What with the preliminary crash, the repeated blows on the back of his head, and the puzzling nature of his opponent, King Pellinore-Dash is now be seen to be visibly troubled in his brains. He sways backward and forward under the hail of blows which are administered, and feebly wags his arms.
"Poor King," says the Wart-W. "I wish he would not hit him so."
As if in answer to his wish, Sir Grummore-Lott pauses in his labours.
TRUCE
"Do you want Pax?" asks Sir Grummore-Lott.
King Pellinore-Dash makes no answer.
Sir Grummore-Lott favors him with another whack and says, "If you don't say Pax, I shall cut your head off."
"I won't," says the King.
Whang! Goes the sword on the top of his head.
Whang! It goes again.
Whang! For the third time.
"Pax," says King Pellinore-Dash, mumbling rather.
Then, just as Sir Grummore-Lott is relaxing with the fruits of victory, he swings round upon him, shouting "Non! At the top of his voice, and gives him a good push in the middle of the chest.
Sir Grummore-Dash falls over backwards.
"Well!" exclaims the Wart-W. "What a cheat!" I would not have thought it of him."
King Pellinore-Dash hurriedly sits on his victim's chest, thus increasing the weight upon him to a quarter of a ton and making it quite impossible for him to move, and begins to undo Sir Grummore-Lott's helm.
"You said Pax!"
"I said Pax Non under my breath."
"It's a swindle."
"It's not."
"You're a cad."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"I said Pax Non."
"You said Pax."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't"
"Yes, you did."
By this time Sir Grummore-Lott's helm is unlaced and they can see his bare head glaring at King Pellinore-Dash, quite purple in the face.
"Yield thee, recreant," says the King.
"Shan't," says Sir Grummore-Lott.
"You have got to yield, or I shall cut off you head."
"Cut it off then."
"Oh, come on," says the King. "You know you have to yield when you helm is off."
"Feign I, " says Sir Grummore-Lott.
"Well I shall just cut your head off."
"I don't care."
The King waves his sword menacingly in the air.
"Go on," says Sir Grummore-Lott. "I dare you to."
The King lowers his sword and says, "Oh, I say, do yield, please."
"You yield," says Sir Grummore-Lott.
"But I can't yield. I am on top of you after all, am I not, what?"
"Well, I have feigned yieldin'."
"Oh, come on, Grummore-Lott I do think you are a cad not to yield. You know very well I can't cut your head off."
"I will not yield to a cheat who started fightin' after he said Pax."
"I am not a cheat."
"You are a cheat."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"Very well," says King Pellinore-Dash. "You can jolly well get up and put on your helm and we will have a fight. I won't be called cheat for anybody."
"Cheat!" says Sir Grummore-Lott.
POLITICS AS USUAL
They stand up and fumble together with the helm, hissing "No, I'm not." � "Yes, you are," until it is fixed safely on. Then they retreat to opposite ends of the clearing, get their weight upon their toes, and come rumbling and thundering together like two runaways trains.
Unfortunately they are now so cross that they have both ceased to be vigilant, and in the fury of the moment they miss each other altogether. The momentum of their armor is too great for them to stop till they have passed each other handsomely, and then they manoeuver about in such a manner that neither happens to come within the other's range of vision. It is funny watching them. Because King Pellinore-Das, having already been caught from behind once, is continually spinning round to look behind him, and Sir Grummore-Lott, having used the stratagem himself, is doing the same thing. Thus they wander for some five minutes, standing still, listening, clanking, crouching, creeping, peering, walking on tiptoe, and occasionally making a chance swipe behind their backs. Once they are standing within a few feet of each other, back to back, only to stalk off in opposite directions with infinite precaution, and once King Pellinore-Dash does hit Sir Grummore-Lott with one of his back strokes, but they both immediately spin round so often that they became giddy and mislay each other afresh.
After five minutes Sir Grummore-Lott says, "All right, Pellinore-Dash. It is no use hidin'. I can see where you are."
"I am not hiding," exclaims King Pellinore-Dash indignantly. "Where am I?"
They discover each other and come up close together, face to face.
"Cad," says Sir Grummore-Lott.
"Yah," says King Pellinore-Dash.
They turn round and march off to their corners, seething with indignation.
"Swindler," shouts Sir Grummore-Lott.
"Beastly bully," shouts King Pellinore-Dash.
With this they summon all their energies together for one decisive encounter, leaning forward, lower their heads like two billy-goats, and positively sprint together for the final blow. Alas, their aim is poor. They miss each other by about five yard, passing at full steam doing at least eight knots, like ships that pass in the night but speak not to each other in passing, and hurtle onward to their doom. Both knights begin waving their arms like windmills, anti-clockwise , in the vain effort to slow up. Both continuing with undiminished speed. Then Sir Grummore-Lott rams his head against the beech in which the Wart-W was sitting, and King Pellinore-Dash collides with a chestnut at the other side of the clearing. The trees shake, the forest rings. Blackbirds and squirrels curse and wood-pigeons fly out of their leafy perches half a mile away. The two knights stand to attention while one could count three. Then, with a last unanimous melodious clang, they both fall prostrate on the fatal sward.
"Stunned," says Merlyn-Greenspan, I should think."
"Oh, dear," says the Wart-W. "Ought we to get down and help them?"
"We could pour water on their heads," says Merlyn-Greenspan reflectively, "if there was any water. But I don't suppose they would thank us for making their armor rusty. They will be all right. Besides, it is time that we were home."
"But they might be dead."
"They are not dead, I know." In a minute they will come round and go off home to dinner."
"Poor King Pellinore-Dash has not got a home."
"Then Sir Grummore-Lott will invite him to stay the night. They will be the best of friends when they come to. They always are."
"Do you think so?"
"My dear boy, I know so. ....
THE END (IF ONLY IT WERE THE END)
Politicians, enemies to the last, gather up their skirts and defend "their" realm against all the bureaucrats and voters who seek their destruction (removal.) Such it is that the good knight and king see that regardless of the approach to obtaining a worthwhile solution, it is the end result that is important. Which is why Sir Grummore-Lott and King Pellinore-Dash go off home to dinner.
So it is written, or almost written in the Once and Future King. (With apologies to T. H. White)
EPILOGUE
Trent Nota Lottaman hails from that rusty bucket of the South, Mississippi. No one knows why those good Southerners should vote for him, much less entrust him with the Nation's business. If ever retired from Government, he should find work as a Baptist Preacher selling insurance on the side.
Thomas Daschle says he's from South Dakota. But long ago he took up residence in the Nation's Capitol and never looked back. Maybe the dirt-farmers, gold-diggers and bikers know something we don't, and are glad to see him outta there. On his Government pension he'll not need to work but to keep his hand in, will probably make a fine Funeral Director.
Such it is that Trent Lott will invite Thomas Daschle home for dinner, as George W. said, the Leader of the Senate, who wants to be King, has no home, only the empty halls of Congress, perhaps to be shared with the Lady in Pink, who likewise has no home.
***
The Once and Future King, T. H. White, G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, 1958, pp. 59...
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