During the Great Madness of 2010, when the lords and ladies of teabaggery did loudly drag their knuckles across the land, we were treated to the spectacle of one Sharron Angle, a homo moronicus so deeply de-evolved she was unable even to correctly spell her first name.
From out of the desert, she did come, to warn the people that fluoridation would sap their precious bodily fluids. She wished to go to Washington DC, there to cleanse the waters, and also to revive Prohibition, meanwhile publicly fellating the likes of Augusto Pinochet, because, you know, “sometimes dictators have good ideas,” and therefore they should be Rewarded.
But alas, the people of Nevada, in the end they decided they would prefer Ms. Angle keep to her own good froot loop, and refrain from representing them, as US senator, in the nation’s capital.
It was only after her campaign had run its course—that is, into the ditch—that we learned how truly peculiar be this woman and her people. We were informed, for instance, that nominally sane members of the Nevada Republican Party referred to Angle’s “brain trust” as “The Island Of Misfit Toys.” And that although we had known heretofore that Angle was allergic to the media—sometimes, when she saw them coming, she would literally run, and faster than Richard Pryor with his body on fire—we now discovered that Angle actually considered them The Enemy.
For her campaign workers were put through a three-hour indoctrination course, in which they were vouchsafed details of a Secret Code they were to use, when Enemies, like the media, were believed to be about.
To wit: “If anyone came into the office who looked like a Democrat, a Reid supporter or a member of the media—they all look alike!—[the] order was to dial a certain extension in front of the interloper and say, ‘It’s time to water the plants.'”
At the time, I believed this to be a code peculiar to Angle alone.
But no longer. For last night, perusing a Certified Ala Tome, I was confronted with evidence indicating that Angle probably came to this code by way of the Camorra, an organized-crime outfit originally out of southern Italy, but now Known to be active in Nevada; that is, the land of mutant sand, wherein the rough beast of Ms. Angle was born.
Remember: truly: there are no coincidences.
Here is the Revelation, from The Camorra In Italy, by Arthur Train:
No more interesting example of this slang has ever come to light than in the secret diary of Tobia Basile (nicknamed “Scarpia Leggia”) who, after serving thirty years in prison, returned to the haunts of men to teach the picciotti the forms and ceremonies of the society and to instruct them in its secret language. This strange old man, more literate than most Camorrists, kept a diary in the ancient symbolism of the brotherhood. Having become bored by his wife he murdered her, walled her body up in the kitchen, and recorded what he had done, thus:
May 1, “The violets are out.”
May 7, “Water to the beans.”
June 11, “I have pruned my garden.”
Aug. 10, “How beautiful is the sun.”
Sept. 12, “So many fine sheep are passing.”
Time passed, and a contractor, rebuilding the wall, came upon the corpse. Tobia denied his guilt, but his diary was found, as well as a Camorrist translator. “Water to the beans.” That beautiful metaphor was shown to mean naught else but “I have killed and buried her.” And in the face of his own diary Tobia admitted the accuracy of his record. “Water to the beans.”
So. It is good that the Angleoids determined it was but “time to water the plants.” For if they had chosen instead to bring “water to the beans,” there would have been a bloodbath. Many walls would have needed to be excavated, to extract the remains of media-beings gone missing.
Maybe next election. For Achtung Angle, she has vowed to, at some point, slouch from out of the waterless wastes, to seek elective office once more.