On September 2nd, Diane Ravitch lost her beans. And she’s never found them again.
She skidded off into a rabid rant about Trump supporters and some “grizzled old man” in “a beaten-up, dirty truck” who “must have gone to public schools” because he didn’t “look like a graduate of Andover or Exeter.”
I’ll let you find the fun in this …. here’s the link … and my response.
It’s true, alright. You are known by the company you keep.
And that’s extra-sad news for Diane Ravitch.
Of all the self-absorbed fops defending her dip in the dumb pool, no one comes close to Bob Shepherd. He’s the excruciating dope in the picture above.
He spent his last Labor Day weekend dodging from comment to comment … like some valiant something-or-other … putting words in people’s mouths … and strutting his invisible panache with an embarrassing repartee of idiocy.
His blog … or shrine … or whatever … is called “Praxis”. It seems Mister Shepherd fancies himself a heavy muser … in the intellectual company of Plato, Aristotle, and St. Augustine. I’m sure they’d want out of that cab asap.
In the aftermath of that infamous post, Mister Shepherd has been in a keyboarding marathon … offering up his flaccid version of wit … and his one-of-a-kind exhibition of wincing exposition.
All in defense of the indefensible … the doyenne of education, Ms. BumperStickerReaderStalker.
I suspect Ol’ Shep lives his life waggin’ his tail and sniffin’ her trail … with a roll of Scott tissue ever at the ready. And he’s happy for the job. And she finds his brown nose cute.
This is a half-wit who mauls the English language.
HIs blog boast is as follows … if you can follow. I can’t.
“All real learning is unlearning.”
Pssst … you’re NOT Mr. Miyagi. Cool it on the fortune cookie riddles.
“You have to step through the wardrobe or fall down the rabbit hole into a place beyond your interpellations, beyond the collective fantasies that go by the name of common sense.”
I do not.
“Real learning requires a period of estrangement from the familiar. You return to find the ordinary transmuted and wondrous. You see it anew, as on the first day of creation, as though for the first time.”
Bob … you’re scaring me.
And, yes, he attached his name to it.
Tell me true … what do you get out of those statements? I get headaches. Lots of headaches.
I’ve lived in the world of words my entire life … and I’m completely lost. This isn’t heavy-duty anything … this is pretentious snottiness.
Know what? That’s a symptom. Of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. It’s real. And Bob’s got it. Bad.
Sufferers think they’re intellectually exquisite. And … they have this urgency for excessive admiration and attention … to prove that others think highly of them, too. In everyday terms … the guy’s needy. And annoying.
And that’s not the worst of it.
In the wake of her sensational melt-down, this literacy-butcher has appointed himself her personal Sir Laughalot … because laugh is all I do when he lets loose with some of his bad Bobisms. On my friends. Who are blocked … and unable to respond to his ineloquent snark.
So … I’m leveling the playing field. Havin’ some keyboard fun of my own. And sticking up for my friends.
I get it. He’s there to cheer up the distraught damsel. To lift her spirits after her haughty harangue. And he wants to endear himself … with this sucky soliloquy.
First … the title.
“Our Boadicea, Our Jeanne d’Arc, Is a 79-year-old Grandmother, an Existence Proof of the Stupidity of Ageism”
My eyes have rolled into the back of my head.
Believe me … Boadicea would slit her own throat… and Miss Joanie would torch herself … if they found themselves in such company.
So here goes. Have a bucket handy.
“On this Labor Day, I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge the Herculean labors of Diane Ravitch.”
I’m getting a rash.
“Dr. Ravitch has for many years now been the most significant force for sanity in all of U.S. K-12 education.”
Not anymore. She screwed the pooch. Now she’s just another liberal nut-job.
“Day in and day out, she indefatigably calls out the charlatans and grifters on the education carnival midway and fights to protect our most important institution, our public schools.”
How high is your horse anyway? I can’t bring myself to comment on his cute “carnival midway” spittle.
WARNING: Extreme Fawning.
“In addition to being our foremost historian of education, she has also become our premier muckraker–the Ambrose Bierce, Ida B. Wells, Ida Tarbell, Lincoln Steffens, Nelly Bly, and Upton Sinclair of our age.”
Bob … stop. Please.
I could bang my head on the keyboard all day … and it wouldn’t get this stink out of my brain.
And finally … the big, wet butt-kiss.
“My admiration and respect … for our Boadicea, our Jeanne d’Arc, knows no bounds.”
And neither does my gagging.
Sad, eh? This is what happens when you hit bottom.
And your last friend is a guy named Bob.
Denis Ian
Missives Worth Reading 
One thought on “Lost Beans”