Harvey profile: an American icon

by Paul Harvey

Hello Americans.
You’ve heard the story about a boy who played jacks on the sidewalk with other boys his age. A boy who fished and walked the railroad tracks on evenings after his homework was finished.
It’s your typical tale of a typical boy in the typical setting of middle America in the 1950s, right?
Straight from the collector’s edition hard-bound book of Norman Rockwell paintings, right?
Well, you’ve heard all that sh*t before. I’m here to tell you something else.
I’m here to tell you about David Speakeasy.
He was a boy once.
Now, after 38 years, two gun shot wounds, one war, an operation, jail time, love, marriage, divorce, a child and many many visits to the dentist, Speakeasy is a man.
David Speakeasy, infamous prognosticator of all things vile, now lectures children on “the good life.”
His tell-all style of the pleasures of the flesh and horrors of the mind, bodes well in an age where every kid and his dog wants to ride off into the sunset on a 1959 Vincent after a couple of cold beers with the boys and a good conversation with the lady and maybe some chips and salsa after reading his favorite piece of trash on the front porch dreaming of a bygone era when bygones could be bygones and William Faulkner could write a sentence as long as he damn well pleased.
Speakeasy. The name rolls off the tongue like two wheels licking asphalt, spinning madly over the American prairie like Speakeasy himself: a man and his machine and his mouth.
He frequents elementary schools, where his tell-all style sits well with administrators who don’t mind wasting already limited class time on silly lecturers that don’t even brush their teeth and can hardly be considered role models for today’s highly impressionable youth.
Speakeasy isn’t alone in his crusade to ramble and roll across the landscape of American education.
Harley “the Hog” Speakeasy, David’s son, often comes along for the ride.
Harley was born in a cross-fire hurricane, he tells the kids, and raised by a toothless, bearded hag.
He drools and spits and spews explosive flatulent noises as he moves across the stage.
Many children in the audience shudder. Some even cry.
Calmly, almost reassuringly, he tells them: “But it’s allllllll riiiighhhggghhhht now. In fact, it’s a gas.”
And if you want gas, be sure to pull into Jiffystop. Jiffystop’s one-stop, multipump station will fill you up in a jiffy! Remember, if you’re out on the road and you have to stop, make it a Jiffystop.
But now back to our story.
The Speakeasys are more than likely coming to a town near you. And very soon.
The Speakeasys’ tag-team explosion of rhetorical virtuosity is heralded by few and appreciated by almost none. Still, somehow, by the grace of the God they disavow, they get gigs.
Some call it villainous. Others, splendid. Still others, liking what they hear and hearing what they like, call it giddy-good-digs.
Most don’t know what the hell that means, but disagree all the same.
What this reporter is here to tell you, you may never quite understand.
I’m Hart Rockwell. Over. And out.
Sorry. I’m Paul Harvey, and that’s a mess of a story.