William Rivers Pitt Psychoanalyzed

Okay, this DUFU edition is a bit different than a typical one. In this edition we see William Rivers Pitt placed under the psychological microscope in an incredibly HILARIOUS but accurate manner by franksolich over at the CONSERVATIVE UNDERGROUND. So let us now watch franksolich present his analysis of Pied Piper Pitt in Bostonian Blue while your humble correspondent yells "BRAVO!" from the sidelines between bellylaughs.

You know the Bostonian Drunkard Hates his father.

It doesn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out the Bostonian Drunkard.

But because it's not considered socially respectable to Hate one's own father--but yet one has that "need," that "urge," to Hate, one transfers it to another target, in the case of the Bostonian Drunkard, to the nice guy who never did the Bostonian Drunkard any harm, the guy currently in the White House.

The Bostonian Drunkard is "closer" to his mother, but he dislikes her too.

It doesn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out the Bostonian Drunkard.

His tactic with his mother however, is different.

The Bostonian Drunkard is a child of divorce.

The Bostonian Drunkard constantly urges his maternal ancestress to read DUmmieland, not for the purpose of illumination and enlightenment, but more so to embarrass and humiliate her, for having "hurt" him by getting a divorce when he was still a little lad.

"LOOK, MOM!--LOOK OVER HERE, MOM!--HEY, MOM!--LOOK AT ME, MOM!--LOOK AT WHAT A FOOL I'M MAKING OF MYSELF, MOM!--LOOK AT WHAT AN ASS I'M MAKING OF MYSELF, MOM!--DON'T YOU FEEL BADLY, MOM, AS YOU DESERVE TO, SEEING YOUR SON BEING SUCH A JERK, MOM?--AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, MOM, THAT I'M SUCH A SORDID SQUALID BEING, NOTHING WHAT YOU HAD HOPED I WOULD BE!--IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, MOM!--YOU MADE ME WHAT I AM, MOM, AND I HOPE IT MAKES YOU CRY, MOM, THAT I'M THE LOSER I AM!--&c., &c., &c.

It doesn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out the Bostonian Drunkard.

When I think of the maternal ancestress of the Bostonian Drunkard, I think of something I saw, circa 1990, while waiting for a bus in the Back Bay or Beacon Hill (I forget which one, but all "trendy" places look alike to me). I was standing near a row-house, and on the left side was one of those windows that sticks out over the sidewalk.

In that window, behind some sheer gossamer curtains, was a grey-haired woman, circa her early 60s, tall, gaunt, emaciated, obviously well-bred. She didn't see me looking at her, as her eyes were focused on some other-worldly vision, such as perhaps a memory of an utterly worthless heir.

And she was crying.