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Meanwhile, yet another speech has been written. As in years past, it may be quoted in its entirety without attribution. Indeed, any speakers in need of quick copy are encouraged to deliver this speech, though it is a bit of a sock in the chops, so orators are advised to leave the motor running. Good Morning, Saps. I know you were expecting Cher to deliver your commencement address but unfortunately she has been called to an emergency meeting of the NASA board of directors. Keep your shirts on and listen closely. I shall be brief. It has come to my attention that some of you, and perhaps all of you, continue to believe in the dignity of man. Indeed, most of you continue to believe that man is born noble and would stay that way were it not for invidious influences of church, state, and the Boy Scouts. You continue to believe, against all evidence, that left to his own devices man would be content to chew upon a celery stalk while contemplating the universe. He would dance in the meadows in the afternoon and write sonnets by the light of the moon. He would never know tears or tumors, and indeed would never die. Yes, this is the kind of twaddle you whelps gulp by the gallon. Against the resounding testimony of history you continue to believe that inside each of us there is a glow of goodness, a glow that wishes only to be nurtured into a flame. You further believe that if that flame is allowed to grow you could indeed light the world. You believe in the brotherhood of man, the league of nations, and that Winn Dixie holds double-coupon days because Winn and Dixie like you. You believe yourselves to be enlightened, ingenious, curious, brilliant, and otherwise the utter crown of creation. You even believe the Weather Channel. Oh, you miserable frogs. I am here today to tell you that you are wrong. You are vastly wrong. The fact of the matter is, man is a fool. He will not take his first breath until he is slapped. From that moment on, it is all down hill. He thinks himself grand when he has gained advantage over dolts and thinks himself a failure when he is outdone by prodigies. He never knows his place in the world. He makes heroes of poseurs and puts prophets to the sword He bangs on a log and calls it music; dances on a table and calls it art; breaks wind and thinks himself a comedian. Most of what he praises is low, what he despises is high. His mind slinks like a snake's, and he has the nerve to condescend to a crocodile and exterminate the peaceful roach. He speaks highly of love, when it suits him, yet measures his true worth by calculating his infidelities. He pulls flowers from the earth to beautify his home, and feeds nettles to the children of the poor. He builds shrines to his avarice and temples to his greed, ignoring the massive winds of emptiness howling inside him. He drapes his coffins with silk and his beds with satin, yet burlap is his true raiment. And so, my dear Saps, what are your options? You can go into this world and become part of it, or you can take a higher road. Looking upon you, I see no one who would risk the latter course. And so enough talk of options. Behold your fate. You will seek the applause of philistines and reject the instruction of the wise. You will justify every impulse with an appeal to savage nobility, and grind restraint beneath your grubby heels. You will devour the weak like a badger devouring chicks. You will tolerate all things you find tolerable, embrace all things you find lovable, and salute all that is safe to salute. You will worship the transitory and flee the iron decree laid down at the foundations of time: That you, pathetic ant, will one day die. As you move toward your just reward you may shake your impotent little fists at the heavens and shriek "How Dare You!" Indeed, there are some of you thinking the same about me. You wonder why the forces that rule this tin-horn university would send me in Cher's place. You came here for a pat on the back but I have unloosed the stinging hornets of reproach. As it happens, I have an answer to your silly little question. The fact of the matter is, I am dead drunk. Now where the hell is my check? — Dave Shiflett is coauthor of Christianity on Trial. |
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printurl = Request.ServerVariables("URL")%>
nce
again, the mailman has failed to deliver an invitation to deliver a commencement
address. This makes 46 years in a row, give or take a few, and that's
not so easy on the old self-esteem. There are, after all, some 3,600 colleges
and universities in America, and only about four good speakers. Maybe
it's time to get an agent.
