December 16, 2022 • 51 mins
EPISODE 97: COUNTDOWN WITH KEITH OLBERMANN
A-Block (1:43) SPECIAL COMMENT: So you probably haven't heard anything about this (LOL) but last night Elon Musk reenacted the church scene from "The Godfather" where Al Pacino as Michael Corleone has all his rivals murdered while his own son is being baptized. I was almost incidental in this: on November 6th, Musk wrote "My commitment to free speech extends to not banning the account following my plane, even though that is a direct personal safety risk." Five weeks later Elon Musk-leone banned the account and threatened legal action against the kid, called it "Assassination Coordinates," even though the information is legally and publicly available and as Phil Bump of The Washington Post writes "identifying the location of an airplane provides 'assassination coordinates' to, like, the operator of a Patriot missile battery." Journalists like Aaron Rupar, Ryan Mac, Donie O'Sullivan from CNN, Drew Harwell of The Post, Matt Binder, Micah Lee, Tony Webster, Steve Herman from the Voice of America - and me - who defended the account, or mentioned a new account had begun on Twitter's rival Mastodon, or linked to it - were immediately banned, permanently, without explanation or notification. I"ll give you the full saga of Apartheid Clyde here, but what a friggin candy-ass lying hypocritical self-contradicting little paranoid snowflake Elon Musk is!
B-Block (20:57) SPECIAL COMMENT: I swear I wondered if maybe Musk did this anti-free speech crap just to make everybody forget about Trump's ridiculous "SuperHero Digital Baseball Cards" which show such illustrations as liquid pouring out of the seat of his pants, him standing in front of something called "RUMP TOWEL," and him standing dressed as a cowboy and way in the background it sure looks like two horses are having sex.
C-Block (27:27) FRIDAYS WITH THURBER: His classic story "The Catbird Seat."
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:04):
Countdown with Keith Olderman is a production of I Heart Radio.
What a freaking candy ass lying, hypocritical, self contradicting little
(00:29):
paranoid snowflake. Elon Musk is my commitment to free speech,
the new stalin of Twitter wrote on November six, extends
to not banning the account following my plane, even though
that is a direct personal safety risk. Then he banned
(00:49):
the account following his plane. Must then banned the kid
Jack Sweeney and his account at elon Jet. And he
is a kid, He's a teenager, he's a college freshman,
the account he had just boasted about not banning. He
did this after first trying to bribe but Sweeney, and
after the kid had had the audacity to propose a
compromise in which the information was delayed in some way.
(01:12):
Then Wednesday night, Musk put out some story about some
guy in a car following another car that supposedly was
connected to his Musk's family. Then the Kai got on
top of Musk's family these cars hood and Musk stated
as if fact that it all happened, if it happened
(01:33):
only because of information gleaned from the at elon jet account.
And he promised legal action is being taken against Sweeney
and organizations who supported harm to my family. Musk's hyperbolic
panic about this has since grown from my commitment to
free speech extends to not banning the account following my
(01:54):
plane to quote, they posted my exact real time location
basically assassination coordinates unquote, as the icka will. Philip Bump
of The Washington Post writes, identifying the location of an
airplane provides assassination coordinates to like the operator of a
(02:15):
Patriot missile battery. I give Phil's account to like Saturday
at lunchtime. And by the way, this I was on
that plane, Muskie and bleat. This contradicts Musk's earlier claim
that he wasn't on that plane tracked by Sweeney's account.
On Wednesday, mush had also promised any account doxing real
(02:37):
time location info of anyone will be suspended, and then
he tweeted video reportedly of the driver who purportedly was
driving near the Musk family car. It panned down to
the license plate of the car and it asked Musk
asked everybody on Twitter, quote anybody recognized this person or car,
(02:59):
disseminating the license plate and asking for an idea of
the car, or the license, flight or the person. That
is the legal definition of doxing. And interestingly, there is,
as of this recording, no criminal case known nor complaint
filed in Los Angeles where Musk claims this took place,
nor in fact, any evidence that it did take place.
(03:21):
Then Jack Sweeney opened another tracking account at elon jet
at Mastodon Masterdon, one of the rivals for Twitter. And remember,
all the flight information is publicly available. It's completely legal,
promulgated by hundreds of websites and social media accounts. The
info has been used to track everybody from Russian oligarchs
(03:42):
to baseball free agents. At this point, last night things
escalated and Elon Musk suddenly did his Thelma and Louise
bit into the Grand Canyon of Twitter. Other Twitter users,
including prominent liberals like the independent gad Fly journalist Aaron Rupar,
reported on at elon jet at Mastodon linked to it,
(04:07):
and the purge began. Rupar was permanently suspended without ever
being notified why by Twitter. Drew Harwell the Washington Post
then wrote, Twitter just suspended a competitor's account at joined
Mastodon because it posted a link to its own websites
version of at elon Jet public legally acquired data that
(04:29):
Twitter decided two days ago was against the rules. Loving
the free speech, he added, Harwell attached screenshots. Harwell, it
turned out, had emailed Musk on Tuesday about why Musk
had reinstated a series of prominent q and on accounts.
Musk had replied, simply, L. O. L. Harwell is not
(04:50):
an independent. He is of the Washington Post. And you
would think Musk would empathize with the Washington Post since
it is owned by another mega rich guy named Jeff Bezos,
and they must have a club or a secret handshake
or a tree house or something. Harwell was then permanently
banned without notification or explanation. We would need a forensic
(05:11):
pathologist to get the sequence exactly right. But Musk apparently
then banned CNN reporter Donnie O'Sullivan, who had interviewed the
elon Jet at Mastodon guy Sweeney and his grandmother without
being notified or being told why again, and either right
before Donnie got hit or right after it. Musk also
banned Ryan Mack, who was the tech reporter at the
(05:33):
New York Times. Neither The Times nor Ryan have received
any explanation about why this occurred, said a spokesman for
The Gray Lady. This is when I got whacked. I'd
love to say I was that guy in the Godfather
movie and the baptism scene, Philip Talia, who Michael Corleone,
(05:55):
Musk's henchman machine gunned while he was in bed with
the lady with not so many clothes on. But frankly,
I was just sitting here, icing my torn rotator cup
and reading Twitter and getting more and more piste off,
and I suggested on Twitter, we should do a mass
protest requiring only a few quick steps. I tweeted, So
here's a plan. A everybody r t the screenshot that
(06:17):
apparently got the account of Drew Harwell of the Washington
Post suspended b and recreate the tweet word for word
with the link see and linked to Aaron Rupar's piece
that got him permanently suspended. I knew what I was
doing here. Elon Musk has already proved himself on Twitter
and everywhere else he's ever worked, including Tesla and the
(06:38):
rest of these crazy ideas like the invention of the
subway and the tunnel. He has already proved himself, not
much of a businessman, certainly nothing resembling a free speech absolutist,
and not very good with truth or even explaining why
he changed his mind if he has one. I expected
a suspension or a band for doing this, but at
(07:00):
this point I was in for a surprise. When I
went to post that link mastered on dot social slash
at elon jet, a notice automatically came up on Twitter,
reading tweet not sent. Your tweet couldn't be sent because
this link has been identified by Twitter or our partners
as being potentially harmful. So I broke the link into words,
(07:24):
and I tweeted it anyway, and I added, you literally
can't tweet the masted on link, which is then I
broken into words. My protest thread continued five and whoever
is still left here to address the suspensions of Donnio
Settleman of CNN and Ryan mack RT what happened to them?
See you on the other side, friends, And then I
(07:46):
posted a little video of the end of Doctor Strange
Love where the cowboy rides the atomic bomb straight down
to the target. Within minutes, my account was suspended. Then
it popped back into service briefly, and I replied to
some tweets and retweeted some others. Then that stopped. Then
the notice changed to your account is permanently suspended. After
(08:07):
a careful review, we determined your account broke the Twitter rules.
Your account is permanently in read only mode, which means
you can't tweet, retweet, or like content. Incidentally, they're wrong
about that. I just checked again. Yes I'm a Twitter ghost,
but I can still retweet and like and read the
(08:27):
latest ad for a sequined Bolivian throwing dagger, available now
for just nineteen dollars or three for twenty two dollars.
Within an hour, the rest of Don musk Leone's targets
were gushing blood all over the nice clean sheets of
the Twitter Morgue the Twitter account of the Mastedon site, Gone,
(08:49):
Matt Binder from Mashable, Gone, Michael Lee from The Intercept,
Gone Tony Webster, another gadfly, Gone Steve Herman from the
Voice of America. And congratulations Elmo the Voice of America.
The Voice of America has now been banned by you
and the Kremlin. A little after nine Eastern Elon Musk
(09:11):
tweeted about all this, criticize me all day long, He's
totally fine, but docksing my real time location and endangering
my family is not. I retweeted that from my dog's account,
adding none of us docks to you, snowflake, which is
exactly literally true, and it's true for victim zero here
as well Jack Sweeney of the elon Jet account, and
(09:34):
I also sent Apartheid Clyde back a copy of his
tweet about how his commitment to free speech extending to
not banning Sweeney's account, a commitment that will last a
lunchtime happily. Even people who would be dictators, whether of
a country, an industry, or a social media website, can
(09:55):
never actually shut down all the critics, nor especially all
the leakers. Richard Nixon learned this, so did Trump, and
so now as Musk. The account bands were labeled direction
of Ella in Twitter's internal systems, reported The Washington Post
last night. According to two former employees in contact with
(10:15):
Twitter's staff, you've got another leak, Eong and no. Ella
is not what Ellen calls himself whenever he goes to
his happy place. To again quote the Post, she is
Ella Irwin, the company's head of trust and safety, who
has carried out many of Musk's orders since he purchased
the company in late October and began up ending its
(10:38):
rules in the name of what he called quote free
speech unquote Bravo Washington Post. So this Ella is the
Chris Lift of Twitter. Ella Irwin, the always useful LinkedIn
advises us has a twenty year career in things like
marketplace abuse, consumer trust, global trust and policy that places
(11:00):
like Amazon and Google and e Harmony at wait e
harm Any. Well, she's flushed all that in terms of
a career down the drain happily. Before that, Ella was
a call center operations manager at Great Western Bank in Northridge, California,
and I understand they are hiring again. Ella. Ella Irwin
(11:20):
has not tweeted on her own since December ninth. Her
account is Ella g Irwin. She did issue a brief
statement to the website The Verge quote without commenting on
any specific accounts. I can confirm that we will suspend
any accounts that violate our privacy policies and put other
users at risk on quote now. Not referring to specific
(11:42):
accounts was prudent because claiming that Donnie O'Sullivan or Aaron
Rupar or me or the voice of America quote put
other users at risk is slander and to it legally actionable.
Oh and thanks, by the way to the media magazine Variety.
Their headline of this story reads reads Twitter suspends accounts
(12:07):
of Keith Ullerman, Aaron Rufar and more journalists who cover
Elon Musk. I would be embarrassed at top billing in
this considering I was just in the background here. But
you know, Ego as ego. Seriously, this kind of purge was,
of course inevitable. It is hard to believe Twitter could
have gone downhill from where it was six weeks or
(12:29):
six months or six years ago, but it has plummeted
like a safe in a road Runner cartoon. Racism, misogyny, threats,
inducements to violence, anti lgbt Q, scumbaggery, and actual doxing
have exploded on Twitter, and ads are everywhere they used
to be for cars and computers and travel. And now
(12:51):
therefore this sequined throwing daggers. We seriously at this podcast.
We were going to buy a brief campaign on Twitter
to reach likely listeners who were not following me there
for whatever reason, looked at the lay of the land
on Twitter, and we canceled the bye. The bye was
exactly five hundred dollars. American Twitter is not worth five
(13:17):
hundred dollars anymore. The big news organizations who are actually
the backbone of news Twitter aren't happy. And what else
is there on Twitter? There's a Korean boy band Twitter,
there's went Drill Twitter, and there's news Twitter. Quote. Twitter's
increasing instability and volatility should be of incredible concern for
(13:39):
everyone who uses Twitter, said a CNN spokesperson after the
suspension of Donny O'Sullivan. CNN says it has asked Twitter
for an explanation and would quote reevaluate our relationship based
on that response flatly. Barring an immediate reversal of this
by Muskie and the appointment of some grown up to
run the place in his stead, any news organization that
(14:00):
remains on Twitter or lets its journalists continue to tweet
is taking its own reputation in its hands. Now, it
would be cathartic to go on a full rant against Musk,
but what exactly would be the point of that? Only
he and the right wing vermin that he let back
onto the website and the Republicans he endorsed after claiming
(14:22):
he was politically neutral and that his attempt to memory
hold January six is some sort of false flag or
big tech censorship moment, either coincidentally with or in coordination
with Trump. Only they actually buy that all this was
some sort of free speech triumph. Only they believe he
is acting responsibly or consistently, or even just as an adult.
(14:44):
He's just another moneyed knitwit, although he seems to have
dedicated himself to burning as much of that money on
fire as quickly as he can, in a way that
might make even Kanye West say dude, hey, hold on
a moment. As for the washed up fascists, Musk resuscitated
like Glenn Greenwald and Tom can't somebody find me a
(15:05):
shirt that fits me so my nipples don't poke through it?
Fitting celebrating the bands. A month ago, they were denying
Twitter had any right to ban anybody for any reason
at all. They were the people who hallucinated that there
was one set of rules for right wing Twitter and
one set of rules for left wing Twitter. They are
now celebrating the fact that there now really is one
set of rules for right wing Twitter and one set
(15:26):
of rules for left wing Twitter. They should remember that
with the consistency this Musk wife has shown recently. Next
week we will all be back and they will all
be suspended. But I did want to point one thing
out here in conclusion. The bottom line here is this
Elon Musk just isn't very bright. I realized that the
(15:49):
fascists he's been pandering too are not very bright either.
But still, if on April you tweet, as Musk did,
I hope that even my worst critics remain on Twitter,
because that is what free speech means. And not eight
months later you fabricate a flimsy excuse to ban your
critics and your competitors. You have to have somebody around
(16:13):
you who was willing to remind you that this is
not mission impossible here, your old tweets don't automatically self
destruct in ten seconds. Hell. On November, No this November,
Elon Musk wrote, as he is obvious to all but
the media, there is not one permanent ban on even
(16:34):
the most far left account Well, I don't know about that.
I'd ask those most far left account holders, but we
all got banned last night. Still ahead, Okay, quite seriously,
(17:03):
I did tear my rotator cuff quite a while ago,
which is why Thursday's Countdown was an encore edition about
my late dog Mishue and my dog Stevie. The whole tear.
Things actually going great, but we had to move to
more aggressive rehab on Wednesday, and believe it or not,
my typing hand ended up going numb. Now it's just
sore and suspended. I don't want to act like a
(17:26):
martyr here, but who am I kidding? I always want
to look act like a martyr here. But since we
are both still here for several minutes last night, I
was thinking, I wonder if Elon Musk suspended us as
a diversion so nobody would remember Trump making a fool
out of himself with those cartoon baseball cards, which was
also only yesterday. Some thoughts on that. And it is
(17:49):
after all Fridays with Thurber, So listen to the rest
of this. Listen to the rest of the podcast. All right,
I'm playing in pain here. That's next. This dis countdown.
This is countdown with Keith Olberman. This is countdown with
(18:13):
Keith Olberman. This is countdown with Keith Olberman. This is
countdown with Keith old Woman. This is countdown with Keith Olberman.
My crazy friend, you know. This is countdown with you know, Keith,
This is countdown with Keith? Why not? So I'm gonna
(18:41):
give myself credit here. On Wednesday, when Trump burped out
news of his major announcement that had something to do
with America needing a superhero, I tweeted, remember Twitter, it's
some animated cartoon version of him, isn't it, which would
be goddamned funny since he's already the cartoon version of him.
(19:02):
I was so close digital trading cards of Trump at
a peace that show him dressed up in a series
of outfits he could never fit in in real life.
This was the lead story till all of us got
suspended from Twitter, and again I keep thinking, did must
do that just so we'd forget about these Trump cards.
(19:24):
The illustrations on the cards are, to say the least unfortunate.
Even Republicans are saying this is not a serious person.
He clearly did not look at them before they were released.
One illustration has him revealing some sort of Superman shirt,
only with the letter T instead of the letter S
on it, and there are rays coming out of his
(19:44):
eyes as he stands in front of Trump Tower. But
due to unfortunate cropping of the image it instead reads
not Trump tower but rump towel. There's another one with
him dressed up as a race car driver room room only.
The baseball cap he's wearing does not fit, and for
some reason it says Texas over his crotch. Another illustration
(20:06):
has him in a cowboy duster with mountains behind him,
and if you look closely enough, it appears that there
are two horses in the background having sex. There's also
one of him in some sort of flight suit standing
in space or I don't know, but again, next time,
don hire somebody else to draw them. There appears to
(20:27):
be fluid pouring out of the seat of Trump's pants.
So maybe I was wrong and it wasn't a drawing.
Baseball cards and trading cards and digital cards, I know
something about these things. Twenty years ago, my old friends
at Tops, for whom I was a consultant, tried something
called e tops where you bought the cards from them
(20:50):
and they kept them from or you and you had
a digital wallet full of the cards. And that went
fine for a couple of days, and then people said, wait, wait, wait.
The premise of baseball cards is you have them, they
really exist, you keep them in your house. There have
since been some more n f T like things in
sports cards, but they frankly have gone nowhere. So the
(21:10):
premise is bad and the execution is worse, unless you
want a picture of Trump with two horses behind him
having sex. All in all, they reminded me, and not favorably,
of a website that lets you select from thousands of
images onto which they will photoshop a photo of your
dog or your cat. I actually had them made. They
(21:31):
are terrific. They are seamless, they're perfectly sized, color corrected,
my girl Stevie as President in suit and tie at
the podium, my late Mishu as a doctor, Ted as
a ball player, Rose who loves to dig into corners
and hide under couches as an astronaut. And they were
like sixty bucks apiece before the discount, and they literally
(21:53):
could not be improved upon nice big prints. They look nice,
they're well made, kitchy as it sounds, they're perfect. On
the other hand, for only forty dollars more. Each Trump
just looks like a poorly photoshop douche bag in a hat,
or a poorly photoshop douche bag not in a hat
(22:14):
or a poorly photoshop douche bag standing in front of
rump towel with horses having sex behind him. I mean,
for crying out loud. For ninety nine dollars, you can
go on eBay and you can buy a used ticket
to his inauguration, which has some historical value. However, stupid
that historical stuff is, or you know, go crazy buy
(22:39):
a used ticket to his first impeachment only eight d
trust me a much better investment. Back with Fridays with Furber,
next Nancy House to the number one story on the Countdown.
(23:14):
And since it is the weekend addition, it's time for
some James Thurber. The Catbird Seat combines two of my
all time favorite things, Thurber and baseball broadcasting. As Thurber
will reveal in the story, the title comes from a
catchphrase used by the Brooklyn Dodgers legendary announcer Red Barber,
the man who trained Vince Scully and is my late
(23:35):
friend Vin's only true competition for greatest baseball play by
play man of all time. I met Red Barber once
I interviewed him for CNN. He called me Keith throughout
the interview. I was so star struck. It's pretty much
all I remember from the interview. Anyway, Bert Lancaster bought
the movie rights to this story and he got Billy
(23:57):
Wilder to commit to direct it. Well, how come you've
never heard of this perfect sounding film, The Catbird Seat,
directed by Billy Wilder. They sold the rights and in
nineteen sixty the film was made, but they relocated it
from Manhattan to Scotland, starring Peter Sellers dressed up as
(24:18):
an old man as Mr Martin. It's okay unless you've
read the story or had it read to you from
the Thurber Carnival, The Catbird Seat by James Thurber. Mr
Martin bought the pack of camels on Monday night in
(24:38):
the most crowded cigar store on Broadway. It was theater
time and seven or eight men were buying cigarettes. The
clerk didn't even glance at Mr Martin, who put the
pack in his overcoat pocket and went out. If any
of the staff at F and S had seen him
by the cigarettes, they would have been astonished, for it
(24:58):
was generally known that Mr Martin did not smoke and
never had. No one saw him. It was just a
week to the day since Mr Martin had decided to
rub out Mrs Old Jean Barrows. The term rub out
pleased him because it suggested nothing more than the correction
(25:19):
of an error, in this case, an error of Mr Fitzweiler.
Mr Martin had spent each night of the past week
working out his plan and examining it as he walked home.
Now he went over it again for the hundredth time.
He resented the element of imprecision, the margin of guesswork
that entered into the business. The project, as he had
(25:42):
worked it out, was casual and bold. The risks were considerable.
Something might go wrong anywhere along the line, and therein
lay the cunning of his scheme. No one would ever
see in the cautious, painstaking hand of Irwin Martin, head
of the filing department at F and S, of whom
(26:04):
Mr Fittweiler had once said, man is fellow little, but
Martin isn't. No one would see his hand, that is,
unless he were caught in the act. Sitting in his
apartment drinking a glass of milk, Mr Martin reviewed his
case against Mrs Old Jean Barrows, as he had every
(26:28):
night for seven nights. He began at the beginning, her
quacking voice and braying laugh at first profaned the halls
of F and S. On March seven, Mr Martin had
a head for dates. Old Roberts, the personnel chief, had
introduced her as the newly appointed special adviser to the
(26:50):
President of the firm, Mr Fittweiler. The woman had appalled
Mr Martin instantly, but he had not shown it. He
had given her his dry hand, a look of studious
concentration and a faint smile. Why hell, she said, looking
at the papers on his desk, are you lifting the
ox cart out of the ditch. As Mr Martin recalled
(27:13):
that moment over his milk, he squirmed slightly. He must
keep his mind on her crimes as a special advisor,
not on her peccadillos as a personality. This he found
difficult to do. In spite of entering an objection and
sustaining it, The faults of the woman as a woman
kept chattering on in his mind like an unruly witness.
(27:35):
She had for almost two years now baited him in
the halls, in the elevator, even in his own office,
into which she romped now and then like a circus horse.
She was constantly shouting these silly questions at him. I
lifting the ox cart out of the ditch. Are you
(27:55):
tearing up the pea patch? Are you hollering down the
rain barrel? Are you scraping around the bottom of the
pickle barrel? Are you sitting in the hat married set?
It was Joey Hart, one of Mr Martin's two assistants,
who had explained what the gibberish meant. She must be
(28:18):
a dodging fan, he had said, Red Boba announces the
dodging games over the radio, and he uses these expressions,
picked them up down south. Joey had gone on to
explain one or two tearing up the pea patch meant
going on a rampage, Sitting in the catbird seat meant
sitting pretty like a batter with three balls and no
(28:40):
strikes on him. Mr Martin dismissed all this with an effort.
It had been annoying, it had driven him near to distraction,
but he was too solid a man to be moved
to murder by anything so childish. It was unfortunate, he reflected,
as he passed onto the important charges against Mrs Barrows,
(29:01):
that he had stood up under it so well. He
had maintained always an outward appearance of polite tolerance. Why
I even believed you liked the woman mispaired, his other assistant,
had once said to him. He had simply smiled a
gavil wrapped in Mr Martin's mind, and the case proper
(29:22):
was resumed. Mrs all Jean Barrows stood charged with willful, blatant,
and persistent attempts to destroy the efficiency and system of
F and S. It was confident material and relevant to
review her advent and rise to power. Mr Martin had
got the story from Miss Pair, who seemed always able
to find things out. According to her, Mrs Barrows had
(29:47):
met Mr Fitweller at a party where she had rescued
him from the embraces of a powerfully built, drunken man
who had mistaken the president of F and S for
a famous retired middle Western football coach. She had led
him to a sofa and somehow worked upon him a
monstrous magic. The aging gentleman had jumped to the conclusion
(30:11):
there and then that this was a woman of singular attainments,
equipped to bring out the best in him and in
the firm. A week later, he had introduced her into
F and S as his special adviser. On that day,
confusion got its foot in the door. After Miss Tyson,
(30:34):
Mr Brundage and Mr Bartlett had been fired, and Mr
Munson had taken his hat and stalked out mailing. In
his resignation letter, Old Roberts had been emboldened to speak
to Mr Fittweiler. He mentioned that Mr Munson's department had
become a little disrupted, and hadn't they perhaps better resumed
the old system there. Mr Fittweler had said, certainly not.
(30:56):
He had the greatest faith in Mrs Barrow's ideas. They
require a little seasoning. Little seasoning is all, he had added.
Mr Roberts had given it up. Mr Martin reviewed in
detail all the changes wrought by Mrs Barrows. She had
begun chipping at the cornices of the firm's edifice, and
now she was swinging at the foundation stones with a pickaxe.
(31:21):
Mr Martin came now in his summing up to the
afternoon of Monday, November two, just one week ago. On
that day, at three pm, Mrs Barrows had bounced into
his office boom. She had yelled, are you scraping around
the bottom of the pickle barrel? Mr Martin had looked
at her from under his green eye shade, saying nothing.
(31:45):
She had begun to wander about the office, taking it
in with her great popping eyes. Do you really need
all these filing cabinets, she had demanded. Suddenly. Mr Martin's
heart had jumped each of these files, he had said,
keeping his voice even plays an indispensable part in the
(32:07):
system of f and s. She had brayed at him,
while don't tear up the pea patch, and gone to
the door. From there she had bawled, but you share
have got a lot of fine scrap in here. Mr
Martin could no longer doubt that the finger was on
(32:27):
his beloved department. Her pick axe was on the upswing,
poise for the first blow. It had not come yet.
He had received no blue memo from the enchanted Mr
Fitweller bearing nonsensical instructions deriving from this obscene woman, But
there was no doubt in Mr Martin's mind that one
would be forthcoming. He must act quickly. Already a precious
(32:52):
week had gone by. Mr Martin stood up in his
living room, still holding his milk glass. Gentleman of the jury,
he said to himself, I demand the death penalty for
this horrible person. The next day, Mr Martin followed his
(33:13):
routine as usual. He polished his glasses more often and
once sharpened and already sharp pencil, but not even miss
pair noticed. Only once did he catch sight of his victim.
She swept past him in the hall with a patronizing hi.
At five thirty, he walked home as usual and had
a glass of milk as usual. He had never drunk
(33:34):
anything stronger in his life, unless you could count ginger Ale.
The late Sam Schlosser, the s of F and S,
had praised Mr Martin at a staff meeting several years
before for his temperate habits. One of our most efficient workers.
Neither drinks nor smokes, he had said, The results speak
for themselves. Mr Fittweiler had sat by, nodding approval. Mr
(33:59):
Martin was still thinking about that red letter day as
he walked over to the Shafts restaurant on Fifth, a
New Near st. He got there as he always did,
at eight o'clock. He finished his dinner and the financial
page of the New York Sun a quartered at the nine.
As he always did, It was his custom after dinner
to take a walk. This time he walked down Fifth
Avenue at a casual place. His gloved hands felt moist
(34:23):
and warm, his forehead cold. He transferred the camels from
his overcoat to a jacket pocket. He wondered as he
did so, if they did not represent an unnecessary note
of strain. Mrs Barrows smoked only Lucky's. It was his
idea to puff a few puffs on a camel after
(34:44):
the rubbing out, stub it out in the ashtray, holding
her lipstick, saying Lucky's, and thus dragged a small red
herring across the trail. Perhaps it was not a good idea.
It would take time. He might even choke too loudly.
Mr Martin had never seen the house on wet twelfth
(35:05):
Street where Mrs Barrows lived, but he had a clear
enough picture of it. Fortunately, she had bragged to everybody
about her ducky first floor apartment in the perfectly darling
three story red brick. There would be no doorman or
other attendants, just the tenants of the second and third floors.
As he walked along, Mr Martin realized that he would
(35:25):
get there before nine. He had considered walking north on
Fifth Avenue from Shrafts to a point from which it
would take him until ten o'clock to reach the house.
At that hour people were less likely to be coming
in or going out. But the procedure would have made
an awkward loop in the straight thread of his casualness,
and he had abandoned it. It was impossible to figure
(35:48):
when people would be entering or leaving the house. Anyway,
there was a great risk at any hour if he
ran into anybody, he would simply have to place the
rubbing out of Old Jean Barrows in the inactive file forever.
The same thing would hold true if there were some
in her apartment. In that case, he would just say
that he had been passing by, recognized her charming house,
(36:11):
and thought to drop in. It was eighteen minutes after
nine when Mr Martin turned into twelfth straight. A man
passed him, and a man and a woman talking. There
was no one within fifty paces When he came to
the house halfway down the block. He was up the
steps and in the small vestibule, and no time pressing
the bell under the card that said Mrs Old Jean Barrows.
(36:33):
When the clicking in the lock started, he jumped forward
against the door. He got inside fast, closing the door
behind him. A bulb in a lantern hung from the
hall ceiling on a chain, seemed to give a monstrously
bright light. There was nobody on the stair which went
up ahead of him along the left wall. A door
opened down the hall on the wall on the right.
He went toward it, swiftly on tiptoe. Well, for God's sakes,
(36:56):
let who's here? Baled Mrs Barrows, and her braying laugh
rang out like the report of a shotgun. He rushed
passed her like a football tacker, bumping her. Hey, quit shoving,
she said, closing the door behind them. They were in
her living room, which seemed to Mr Martin to be
lighted by a hundred lamps. What's after you? She said,
(37:20):
here's jumpy as a goat. He found he was unable
to speak. His heart was wheezing in his throat. I yes,
he finally brought out. She was jabbering and laughing as
she started to help him off with his coat. No, no,
he said, I'll put it here. He took it off
(37:40):
and put it on a chair near the door. Your
hat and gloves too, she said, you're in a lady's house.
He put his hat on top of the coat. Mrs
Barrows seemed larger than he had thought. He kept his
gloves on. I was passing by, he said, I I recognized.
(38:02):
Is there anyone here? She laughed louder than ever. No,
she said, we're all alone. You're why is a sheet?
You funny man? Whatever has come over you. I'll mix
you a toddy. She started toward a door across the room.
Scotch and soda be all right, But say you don't drink,
do you? She turned and gave him her amused look.
(38:26):
Mr Martin pulled himself together. Scotch and soda will be
all right, he heard himself say. He could hear her
laughing in the kitchen. Mr Martin looked quickly around the
living room for the weapon he had counted on finding one.
There there were and irons, and a poker, and something
in a corner that looked like an Indian club. None
of them would do it. Couldn't be that way. He
(38:49):
began to pace around. He came to a desk. On
it lay a metal paper knife with an ornate handle.
Would it be sharp enough? He reached for it and
knocked over a small brash jar. Stamps spilled out of
it and fell onto the floor with a clatter. Hey,
ms His Barrows yelled from the kitchen, are you tearing
up the pea patch? Mr Martin gave a strange laugh.
(39:13):
Picking up the knife, he tried its point against his
left wrist. It was blunt. It wouldn't do. When Mrs
Barrows reappeared carrying two highballs, Mr Martin, standing there with
his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy. He
had wrought cigarettes in his pocket, a drink prepared for him.
(39:35):
It was all too grossly improbable. It was more than that,
it was impossible. Somewhere in the back of his mind
a vague idea stirred sprouted. For Heaven's sake, take off
those gloves, said Mrs Barrows. I always wear them in
(39:58):
the house, said Mr Martin. The idea began to bloom,
strange and wonderful. She put the glasses on a coffee
table in front of a sofa and sat on the sofa.
Come over here, you odd little man, she said. Mr
Martin went over and sat beside her. It was difficult
getting a cigarette out of the pack of camels, but
(40:20):
he managed it. She held a match for him. Laughing well,
she said, handing him his drink. This is perfectly Mira,
bless you with a drink and a cigarette. Mr Martin puffed,
not too awkwardly and took a gulp of the highball.
I drink and smoke all the time, he said. He
(40:43):
clinked his glass against hers. Here's nuts to that old
windbag fitweiler, he said, and gulped again. The stuff tasted awful,
but he made no grimace. Really, Mr Martin, she said,
her voice and posture changing, you are insulting our employer.
Mrs Barrows was now all special and isser to the president.
(41:06):
I am preparing a bomb, said Mr Martin, which will
blow the old goat higher than hell. He had only
had a little of the drink, which was not strong.
It couldn't be that. Do you take dope or something,
Mrs Barrows asked coldly. Heroin, said Mr Martin. I'll be
(41:27):
cooked to the gills when I bumped that old buzzard off,
Mr Martin, She shouted, getting to her feet, that will
be all of that you must go at once. Mr
Martin took another swallow of the drink. He tapped his
cigarette out in the ashtray and put the pack of
camels on the coffee table. Then he got up. She
stood glaring at him. He walked over and put on
(41:49):
his hat and coat. Not a word about this, he said,
and laid an index finger against his lips. All Mrs
Barrows could bring out was it really? Mr Martin put
his hand on the door knob. I'm sitting in the
catbirds seat, he said. He stuck his tongue out at
(42:11):
her and left. Nobody saw him go. Mr Martin got
to his apartment walking well before eleven. No one saw
him go in. He had two glasses of milk after
brushing his teeth, and he felt elated. It wasn't tipsy
in his because he hadn't been tipsy anyway. The walk
(42:31):
had worn off all effects of the whiskey. He got
in bed and read a magazine for a while. He
was asleep before midnight. Mr Martin got to the office
at eight thirty the next morning, as usual. At a
quarter to nine, old Jean Barrows, who had never before
arrived at work before ten, swept into his office. I
am departing to Mr Fittweiler. Now, she shouted. If he
(42:53):
turns you over to the police, it's no more than
you deserve. Mr Martin gave her a look of shocked surprise.
I beg your pardon, he said. Mrs Barrows snorted and
bounced out of the room, leaving Miss Pared and Joey
Hart staring after her. What's the man with that? Old
Daniel now, asked Miss Pared. I have no idea, said
(43:16):
Mr Martin, resuming his work. The other two looked at him,
and then at each other. Miss Peared got up and
went out. She walked slowly past the closed door of
Mr Fittweiler's office. Mrs Barrows was yelling inside, but she
was not braying. Miss Pared could not hear what the
woman was saying. She went back to her desk. Forty
(43:37):
five minutes later, Mrs Barrows left the President's office and
went into her own, shutting the door. It wasn't until
half an hour later that Mr Fittweiler sent for Mr Martin,
the head of the filing department. Neat, quiet, attentive, stood
in front of the old man's desk. Mr Fittweiler was
pale and nervous. He took his glasses off and twiddled them.
(43:58):
He made a small roughing sound in his throat. Martin,
he said, you have been with us more than twenty years,
twenty two, sir, said Mr Martin. In that time pursued
the President. Your work and your manner have been exemplary.
(44:19):
I trust so, sir, said Mr Martin. I have understood, Martin,
said Mr Fittweler, that you have never taken a drink
or smoked. That is correct, sir, said Mr Martin. Ah yes,
Mr Fittweiler polished his glasses. You may describe what you
did after leaving the office yesterday, Martin, he said, certainly, sir,
(44:43):
he said. I walked home. Then I went to Shrafts
for dinner. Afterward, I walked home again. I went to
bed early, sir, and read a magazine for a while.
I was asleep before eleven. Ah yes, said Mr Fittweiler. Again.
He was silent for a moment, searching for the proper
words to say to the head of the filing department,
(45:04):
Mrs Barrows. He said, finally, Mrs Barrows has worked hard, Martin,
very hard. It ringused me to report that she has
suffered a severe breakdown. It has taken the form of
a persecution complex accompanied by distressing hallucinations. I'm very sorry, sir,
(45:26):
said Mr Martin. Mrs Barrows is under the delusion, continued
Mr Fittweiler, that you visited her last evening and behaved
yourself in a an unseemly matter. He raised his hand
to silence Mr Martin's little, pained outcry. It is the
nature of these psychological diseases, Mr Fittweiler said, to fix
(45:49):
upon the least likely and most innocent party as the
source of persecution. These matters are not for the lay
mind to grasp, Martin. I've just had my psychiatrist, Dr
Fitch on the phone. UH. He would not, of course
commit himself, but he made enough generalizations to substantiate my suspicions.
(46:10):
I suggested to Mrs Barrows, when she had completed her
UH story to me this morning, that she visit Dr
Fitch before I suspected a condition to watch. She flew,
I regret to say, into a rage and demanded requested
that I call you on the carpet. You may not know, Martin,
(46:34):
but Mrs Barrows had planned a reorganization of your department,
subject to my approval. Of course, subject to my approval,
this brought you, rather than anyone else to her mind.
But again that is a phenomenon for Dr Fitch and
not for us. So Martin, I'm afraid Mrs Barrow's usefulness
(46:54):
here is at an end. I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, said
Mr Martin. It was at this point that the door
to the office blew open with the suddenness of a
gas main explosion, and Mrs Barrows catapulted through. It is
the little rat denying it, she screamed. He can't get
(47:14):
away with that. Mr Martin got up and moved discreetly
to a point beside Mr Fittweiler's chair. You drank and
smoked at my apartment, she bawled at Mr Martin, And
you know it. You called Mr Fittwiler an old wind
bag and said you were gonna blow them up when
you got coked to your gills on your heroine. She
(47:35):
stopped yelling to catch her breath, and a new glint
came into her popping eyes. If you weren't set to drab,
ordinary little man, she said, I'd think you'd planned it all,
sticking your tongue out, saying you were sitting in the
cat buried seat because you thought no one would believe
me when I told it. My god, it's really too perfect.
(47:59):
She brayed loudly and hysterically, and the fury was on
her again. She glared at Mr Fittwiler. Can't you see
how he has checked as you all fool? Can't you
see his little game? But Mr Fittweiler had been surreptitiously
pressing all the buttons under the top of his desk,
and employees of F and S began pouring into the room.
(48:20):
Stockton said, Mrs Pittweiler, you and fish bind will take
Mrs Barrows to her home. Mrs Powell, you will go
with them. Stockton, who had played a little football in
high school, blocked Mrs Barrows as she made for Mr Martin.
It took him and fish Mind together to force her
out of the door into the hall crowded with stenographers
and office boys. She was still screaming imprecations at Mr Martin,
(48:45):
tangled and contradictory imprecations. The hubbub finally died out down
the corridor. I regret that this has happened, said Mr Fittweiler.
I shall ask you to dismiss it from your mind. Martin. Yes, sir,
said Mr Martin, anticipating his chiefs that will be all
(49:07):
by moving to the door, I will dismiss it. He
went out and shut the door, and his step was
light and quick in the hall. When he entered his department,
he had slowed down to his customary gate, and he
walked quietly across the room to the double twenty file,
(49:29):
wearing a look of studious concentration. From the Thurber connorable
The Catbird Seat by James Thurber, I've done all the
damage I can do here. If you don't believe me,
(49:49):
ask elon Musk. Thank you for listening, at least for now.
My ability to promote this through Twitter is or to combat,
as the French say, so I am not being egotistical
this time. Get somebody new to subscribe, if you would
be so kind. Here are the credits. Most of the music,
including our theme from Beethoven's Ninth Theory, was arranged, produced,
(50:11):
and performed by Brian Ray and John Philip Chanelle, who
are the Countdown musical directors. All orchestration and keyboards by
John Philip Shanelle. Guitars based on drums by Brian Ray,
produced by t k O Brothers. Other Beethoven selections have
been arranged and performed by No horns allowed. The sports
music is the Oberman theme from ESPN two, and it
(50:31):
was written by Mitch Warren Davis courtesy of ESPN Inc.
Musical comments from Nancy Faust, the best baseball stadium organist ever.
Our announcers today were everybody. Everything else, though, was pretty
much my fault. So that's countdown for this the seven
tenth day since Donald Trump's first attempted to against the
democratically elected government of the United States. That's Donald Trump.
(50:54):
He and I were both suspended by Twitter arrest Trump now,
while we still can mare countdown Monday bulletin's as warranted
till then on Keith Overman, Good morning, good afternoon, goodnight,
and good luck. Countdown with Keith Olderman is a production
(51:18):
of I heart Radio. For more podcasts from I heart Radio,
visit the I heart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever
you get your podcasts.
Countdown with Keith Olderman is a production of I Heart Radio.
What a freaking candy ass lying, hypocritical, self contradicting little
(00:29):
paranoid snowflake. Elon Musk is my commitment to free speech,
the new stalin of Twitter wrote on November six, extends
to not banning the account following my plane, even though
that is a direct personal safety risk. Then he banned
(00:49):
the account following his plane. Must then banned the kid
Jack Sweeney and his account at elon Jet. And he
is a kid, He's a teenager, he's a college freshman,
the account he had just boasted about not banning. He
did this after first trying to bribe but Sweeney, and
after the kid had had the audacity to propose a
compromise in which the information was delayed in some way.
(01:12):
Then Wednesday night, Musk put out some story about some
guy in a car following another car that supposedly was
connected to his Musk's family. Then the Kai got on
top of Musk's family these cars hood and Musk stated
as if fact that it all happened, if it happened
(01:33):
only because of information gleaned from the at elon jet account.
And he promised legal action is being taken against Sweeney
and organizations who supported harm to my family. Musk's hyperbolic
panic about this has since grown from my commitment to
free speech extends to not banning the account following my
(01:54):
plane to quote, they posted my exact real time location
basically assassination coordinates unquote, as the icka will. Philip Bump
of The Washington Post writes, identifying the location of an
airplane provides assassination coordinates to like the operator of a
(02:15):
Patriot missile battery. I give Phil's account to like Saturday
at lunchtime. And by the way, this I was on
that plane, Muskie and bleat. This contradicts Musk's earlier claim
that he wasn't on that plane tracked by Sweeney's account.
On Wednesday, mush had also promised any account doxing real
(02:37):
time location info of anyone will be suspended, and then
he tweeted video reportedly of the driver who purportedly was
driving near the Musk family car. It panned down to
the license plate of the car and it asked Musk
asked everybody on Twitter, quote anybody recognized this person or car,
(02:59):
disseminating the license plate and asking for an idea of
the car, or the license, flight or the person. That
is the legal definition of doxing. And interestingly, there is,
as of this recording, no criminal case known nor complaint
filed in Los Angeles where Musk claims this took place,
nor in fact, any evidence that it did take place.
(03:21):
Then Jack Sweeney opened another tracking account at elon jet
at Mastodon Masterdon, one of the rivals for Twitter. And remember,
all the flight information is publicly available. It's completely legal,
promulgated by hundreds of websites and social media accounts. The
info has been used to track everybody from Russian oligarchs
(03:42):
to baseball free agents. At this point, last night things
escalated and Elon Musk suddenly did his Thelma and Louise
bit into the Grand Canyon of Twitter. Other Twitter users,
including prominent liberals like the independent gad Fly journalist Aaron Rupar,
reported on at elon jet at Mastodon linked to it,
(04:07):
and the purge began. Rupar was permanently suspended without ever
being notified why by Twitter. Drew Harwell the Washington Post
then wrote, Twitter just suspended a competitor's account at joined
Mastodon because it posted a link to its own websites
version of at elon Jet public legally acquired data that
(04:29):
Twitter decided two days ago was against the rules. Loving
the free speech, he added, Harwell attached screenshots. Harwell, it
turned out, had emailed Musk on Tuesday about why Musk
had reinstated a series of prominent q and on accounts.
Musk had replied, simply, L. O. L. Harwell is not
(04:50):
an independent. He is of the Washington Post. And you
would think Musk would empathize with the Washington Post since
it is owned by another mega rich guy named Jeff Bezos,
and they must have a club or a secret handshake
or a tree house or something. Harwell was then permanently
banned without notification or explanation. We would need a forensic
(05:11):
pathologist to get the sequence exactly right. But Musk apparently
then banned CNN reporter Donnie O'Sullivan, who had interviewed the
elon Jet at Mastodon guy Sweeney and his grandmother without
being notified or being told why again, and either right
before Donnie got hit or right after it. Musk also
banned Ryan Mack, who was the tech reporter at the
(05:33):
New York Times. Neither The Times nor Ryan have received
any explanation about why this occurred, said a spokesman for
The Gray Lady. This is when I got whacked. I'd
love to say I was that guy in the Godfather
movie and the baptism scene, Philip Talia, who Michael Corleone,
(05:55):
Musk's henchman machine gunned while he was in bed with
the lady with not so many clothes on. But frankly,
I was just sitting here, icing my torn rotator cup
and reading Twitter and getting more and more piste off,
and I suggested on Twitter, we should do a mass
protest requiring only a few quick steps. I tweeted, So
here's a plan. A everybody r t the screenshot that
(06:17):
apparently got the account of Drew Harwell of the Washington
Post suspended b and recreate the tweet word for word
with the link see and linked to Aaron Rupar's piece
that got him permanently suspended. I knew what I was
doing here. Elon Musk has already proved himself on Twitter
and everywhere else he's ever worked, including Tesla and the
(06:38):
rest of these crazy ideas like the invention of the
subway and the tunnel. He has already proved himself, not
much of a businessman, certainly nothing resembling a free speech absolutist,
and not very good with truth or even explaining why
he changed his mind if he has one. I expected
a suspension or a band for doing this, but at
(07:00):
this point I was in for a surprise. When I
went to post that link mastered on dot social slash
at elon jet, a notice automatically came up on Twitter,
reading tweet not sent. Your tweet couldn't be sent because
this link has been identified by Twitter or our partners
as being potentially harmful. So I broke the link into words,
(07:24):
and I tweeted it anyway, and I added, you literally
can't tweet the masted on link, which is then I
broken into words. My protest thread continued five and whoever
is still left here to address the suspensions of Donnio
Settleman of CNN and Ryan mack RT what happened to them?
See you on the other side, friends, And then I
(07:46):
posted a little video of the end of Doctor Strange
Love where the cowboy rides the atomic bomb straight down
to the target. Within minutes, my account was suspended. Then
it popped back into service briefly, and I replied to
some tweets and retweeted some others. Then that stopped. Then
the notice changed to your account is permanently suspended. After
(08:07):
a careful review, we determined your account broke the Twitter rules.
Your account is permanently in read only mode, which means
you can't tweet, retweet, or like content. Incidentally, they're wrong
about that. I just checked again. Yes I'm a Twitter ghost,
but I can still retweet and like and read the
(08:27):
latest ad for a sequined Bolivian throwing dagger, available now
for just nineteen dollars or three for twenty two dollars.
Within an hour, the rest of Don musk Leone's targets
were gushing blood all over the nice clean sheets of
the Twitter Morgue the Twitter account of the Mastedon site, Gone,
(08:49):
Matt Binder from Mashable, Gone, Michael Lee from The Intercept,
Gone Tony Webster, another gadfly, Gone Steve Herman from the
Voice of America. And congratulations Elmo the Voice of America.
The Voice of America has now been banned by you
and the Kremlin. A little after nine Eastern Elon Musk
(09:11):
tweeted about all this, criticize me all day long, He's
totally fine, but docksing my real time location and endangering
my family is not. I retweeted that from my dog's account,
adding none of us docks to you, snowflake, which is
exactly literally true, and it's true for victim zero here
as well Jack Sweeney of the elon Jet account, and
(09:34):
I also sent Apartheid Clyde back a copy of his
tweet about how his commitment to free speech extending to
not banning Sweeney's account, a commitment that will last a
lunchtime happily. Even people who would be dictators, whether of
a country, an industry, or a social media website, can
(09:55):
never actually shut down all the critics, nor especially all
the leakers. Richard Nixon learned this, so did Trump, and
so now as Musk. The account bands were labeled direction
of Ella in Twitter's internal systems, reported The Washington Post
last night. According to two former employees in contact with
(10:15):
Twitter's staff, you've got another leak, Eong and no. Ella
is not what Ellen calls himself whenever he goes to
his happy place. To again quote the Post, she is
Ella Irwin, the company's head of trust and safety, who
has carried out many of Musk's orders since he purchased
the company in late October and began up ending its
(10:38):
rules in the name of what he called quote free
speech unquote Bravo Washington Post. So this Ella is the
Chris Lift of Twitter. Ella Irwin, the always useful LinkedIn
advises us has a twenty year career in things like
marketplace abuse, consumer trust, global trust and policy that places
(11:00):
like Amazon and Google and e Harmony at wait e
harm Any. Well, she's flushed all that in terms of
a career down the drain happily. Before that, Ella was
a call center operations manager at Great Western Bank in Northridge, California,
and I understand they are hiring again. Ella. Ella Irwin
(11:20):
has not tweeted on her own since December ninth. Her
account is Ella g Irwin. She did issue a brief
statement to the website The Verge quote without commenting on
any specific accounts. I can confirm that we will suspend
any accounts that violate our privacy policies and put other
users at risk on quote now. Not referring to specific
(11:42):
accounts was prudent because claiming that Donnie O'Sullivan or Aaron
Rupar or me or the voice of America quote put
other users at risk is slander and to it legally actionable.
Oh and thanks, by the way to the media magazine Variety.
Their headline of this story reads reads Twitter suspends accounts
(12:07):
of Keith Ullerman, Aaron Rufar and more journalists who cover
Elon Musk. I would be embarrassed at top billing in
this considering I was just in the background here. But
you know, Ego as ego. Seriously, this kind of purge was,
of course inevitable. It is hard to believe Twitter could
have gone downhill from where it was six weeks or
(12:29):
six months or six years ago, but it has plummeted
like a safe in a road Runner cartoon. Racism, misogyny, threats,
inducements to violence, anti lgbt Q, scumbaggery, and actual doxing
have exploded on Twitter, and ads are everywhere they used
to be for cars and computers and travel. And now
(12:51):
therefore this sequined throwing daggers. We seriously at this podcast.
We were going to buy a brief campaign on Twitter
to reach likely listeners who were not following me there
for whatever reason, looked at the lay of the land
on Twitter, and we canceled the bye. The bye was
exactly five hundred dollars. American Twitter is not worth five
(13:17):
hundred dollars anymore. The big news organizations who are actually
the backbone of news Twitter aren't happy. And what else
is there on Twitter? There's a Korean boy band Twitter,
there's went Drill Twitter, and there's news Twitter. Quote. Twitter's
increasing instability and volatility should be of incredible concern for
(13:39):
everyone who uses Twitter, said a CNN spokesperson after the
suspension of Donny O'Sullivan. CNN says it has asked Twitter
for an explanation and would quote reevaluate our relationship based
on that response flatly. Barring an immediate reversal of this
by Muskie and the appointment of some grown up to
run the place in his stead, any news organization that
(14:00):
remains on Twitter or lets its journalists continue to tweet
is taking its own reputation in its hands. Now, it
would be cathartic to go on a full rant against Musk,
but what exactly would be the point of that? Only
he and the right wing vermin that he let back
onto the website and the Republicans he endorsed after claiming
(14:22):
he was politically neutral and that his attempt to memory
hold January six is some sort of false flag or
big tech censorship moment, either coincidentally with or in coordination
with Trump. Only they actually buy that all this was
some sort of free speech triumph. Only they believe he
is acting responsibly or consistently, or even just as an adult.
(14:44):
He's just another moneyed knitwit, although he seems to have
dedicated himself to burning as much of that money on
fire as quickly as he can, in a way that
might make even Kanye West say dude, hey, hold on
a moment. As for the washed up fascists, Musk resuscitated
like Glenn Greenwald and Tom can't somebody find me a
(15:05):
shirt that fits me so my nipples don't poke through it?
Fitting celebrating the bands. A month ago, they were denying
Twitter had any right to ban anybody for any reason
at all. They were the people who hallucinated that there
was one set of rules for right wing Twitter and
one set of rules for left wing Twitter. They are
now celebrating the fact that there now really is one
set of rules for right wing Twitter and one set
(15:26):
of rules for left wing Twitter. They should remember that
with the consistency this Musk wife has shown recently. Next
week we will all be back and they will all
be suspended. But I did want to point one thing
out here in conclusion. The bottom line here is this
Elon Musk just isn't very bright. I realized that the
(15:49):
fascists he's been pandering too are not very bright either.
But still, if on April you tweet, as Musk did,
I hope that even my worst critics remain on Twitter,
because that is what free speech means. And not eight
months later you fabricate a flimsy excuse to ban your
critics and your competitors. You have to have somebody around
(16:13):
you who was willing to remind you that this is
not mission impossible here, your old tweets don't automatically self
destruct in ten seconds. Hell. On November, No this November,
Elon Musk wrote, as he is obvious to all but
the media, there is not one permanent ban on even
(16:34):
the most far left account Well, I don't know about that.
I'd ask those most far left account holders, but we
all got banned last night. Still ahead, Okay, quite seriously,
(17:03):
I did tear my rotator cuff quite a while ago,
which is why Thursday's Countdown was an encore edition about
my late dog Mishue and my dog Stevie. The whole tear.
Things actually going great, but we had to move to
more aggressive rehab on Wednesday, and believe it or not,
my typing hand ended up going numb. Now it's just
sore and suspended. I don't want to act like a
(17:26):
martyr here, but who am I kidding? I always want
to look act like a martyr here. But since we
are both still here for several minutes last night, I
was thinking, I wonder if Elon Musk suspended us as
a diversion so nobody would remember Trump making a fool
out of himself with those cartoon baseball cards, which was
also only yesterday. Some thoughts on that. And it is
(17:49):
after all Fridays with Thurber, So listen to the rest
of this. Listen to the rest of the podcast. All right,
I'm playing in pain here. That's next. This dis countdown.
This is countdown with Keith Olberman. This is countdown with
(18:13):
Keith Olberman. This is countdown with Keith Olberman. This is
countdown with Keith old Woman. This is countdown with Keith Olberman.
My crazy friend, you know. This is countdown with you know, Keith,
This is countdown with Keith? Why not? So I'm gonna
(18:41):
give myself credit here. On Wednesday, when Trump burped out
news of his major announcement that had something to do
with America needing a superhero, I tweeted, remember Twitter, it's
some animated cartoon version of him, isn't it, which would
be goddamned funny since he's already the cartoon version of him.
(19:02):
I was so close digital trading cards of Trump at
a peace that show him dressed up in a series
of outfits he could never fit in in real life.
This was the lead story till all of us got
suspended from Twitter, and again I keep thinking, did must
do that just so we'd forget about these Trump cards.
(19:24):
The illustrations on the cards are, to say the least unfortunate.
Even Republicans are saying this is not a serious person.
He clearly did not look at them before they were released.
One illustration has him revealing some sort of Superman shirt,
only with the letter T instead of the letter S
on it, and there are rays coming out of his
(19:44):
eyes as he stands in front of Trump Tower. But
due to unfortunate cropping of the image it instead reads
not Trump tower but rump towel. There's another one with
him dressed up as a race car driver room room only.
The baseball cap he's wearing does not fit, and for
some reason it says Texas over his crotch. Another illustration
(20:06):
has him in a cowboy duster with mountains behind him,
and if you look closely enough, it appears that there
are two horses in the background having sex. There's also
one of him in some sort of flight suit standing
in space or I don't know, but again, next time,
don hire somebody else to draw them. There appears to
(20:27):
be fluid pouring out of the seat of Trump's pants.
So maybe I was wrong and it wasn't a drawing.
Baseball cards and trading cards and digital cards, I know
something about these things. Twenty years ago, my old friends
at Tops, for whom I was a consultant, tried something
called e tops where you bought the cards from them
(20:50):
and they kept them from or you and you had
a digital wallet full of the cards. And that went
fine for a couple of days, and then people said, wait, wait, wait.
The premise of baseball cards is you have them, they
really exist, you keep them in your house. There have
since been some more n f T like things in
sports cards, but they frankly have gone nowhere. So the
(21:10):
premise is bad and the execution is worse, unless you
want a picture of Trump with two horses behind him
having sex. All in all, they reminded me, and not favorably,
of a website that lets you select from thousands of
images onto which they will photoshop a photo of your
dog or your cat. I actually had them made. They
(21:31):
are terrific. They are seamless, they're perfectly sized, color corrected,
my girl Stevie as President in suit and tie at
the podium, my late Mishu as a doctor, Ted as
a ball player, Rose who loves to dig into corners
and hide under couches as an astronaut. And they were
like sixty bucks apiece before the discount, and they literally
(21:53):
could not be improved upon nice big prints. They look nice,
they're well made, kitchy as it sounds, they're perfect. On
the other hand, for only forty dollars more. Each Trump
just looks like a poorly photoshop douche bag in a hat,
or a poorly photoshop douche bag not in a hat
(22:14):
or a poorly photoshop douche bag standing in front of
rump towel with horses having sex behind him. I mean,
for crying out loud. For ninety nine dollars, you can
go on eBay and you can buy a used ticket
to his inauguration, which has some historical value. However, stupid
that historical stuff is, or you know, go crazy buy
(22:39):
a used ticket to his first impeachment only eight d
trust me a much better investment. Back with Fridays with Furber,
next Nancy House to the number one story on the Countdown.
(23:14):
And since it is the weekend addition, it's time for
some James Thurber. The Catbird Seat combines two of my
all time favorite things, Thurber and baseball broadcasting. As Thurber
will reveal in the story, the title comes from a
catchphrase used by the Brooklyn Dodgers legendary announcer Red Barber,
the man who trained Vince Scully and is my late
(23:35):
friend Vin's only true competition for greatest baseball play by
play man of all time. I met Red Barber once
I interviewed him for CNN. He called me Keith throughout
the interview. I was so star struck. It's pretty much
all I remember from the interview. Anyway, Bert Lancaster bought
the movie rights to this story and he got Billy
(23:57):
Wilder to commit to direct it. Well, how come you've
never heard of this perfect sounding film, The Catbird Seat,
directed by Billy Wilder. They sold the rights and in
nineteen sixty the film was made, but they relocated it
from Manhattan to Scotland, starring Peter Sellers dressed up as
(24:18):
an old man as Mr Martin. It's okay unless you've
read the story or had it read to you from
the Thurber Carnival, The Catbird Seat by James Thurber. Mr
Martin bought the pack of camels on Monday night in
(24:38):
the most crowded cigar store on Broadway. It was theater
time and seven or eight men were buying cigarettes. The
clerk didn't even glance at Mr Martin, who put the
pack in his overcoat pocket and went out. If any
of the staff at F and S had seen him
by the cigarettes, they would have been astonished, for it
(24:58):
was generally known that Mr Martin did not smoke and
never had. No one saw him. It was just a
week to the day since Mr Martin had decided to
rub out Mrs Old Jean Barrows. The term rub out
pleased him because it suggested nothing more than the correction
(25:19):
of an error, in this case, an error of Mr Fitzweiler.
Mr Martin had spent each night of the past week
working out his plan and examining it as he walked home.
Now he went over it again for the hundredth time.
He resented the element of imprecision, the margin of guesswork
that entered into the business. The project, as he had
(25:42):
worked it out, was casual and bold. The risks were considerable.
Something might go wrong anywhere along the line, and therein
lay the cunning of his scheme. No one would ever
see in the cautious, painstaking hand of Irwin Martin, head
of the filing department at F and S, of whom
(26:04):
Mr Fittweiler had once said, man is fellow little, but
Martin isn't. No one would see his hand, that is,
unless he were caught in the act. Sitting in his
apartment drinking a glass of milk, Mr Martin reviewed his
case against Mrs Old Jean Barrows, as he had every
(26:28):
night for seven nights. He began at the beginning, her
quacking voice and braying laugh at first profaned the halls
of F and S. On March seven, Mr Martin had
a head for dates. Old Roberts, the personnel chief, had
introduced her as the newly appointed special adviser to the
(26:50):
President of the firm, Mr Fittweiler. The woman had appalled
Mr Martin instantly, but he had not shown it. He
had given her his dry hand, a look of studious
concentration and a faint smile. Why hell, she said, looking
at the papers on his desk, are you lifting the
ox cart out of the ditch. As Mr Martin recalled
(27:13):
that moment over his milk, he squirmed slightly. He must
keep his mind on her crimes as a special advisor,
not on her peccadillos as a personality. This he found
difficult to do. In spite of entering an objection and
sustaining it, The faults of the woman as a woman
kept chattering on in his mind like an unruly witness.
(27:35):
She had for almost two years now baited him in
the halls, in the elevator, even in his own office,
into which she romped now and then like a circus horse.
She was constantly shouting these silly questions at him. I
lifting the ox cart out of the ditch. Are you
(27:55):
tearing up the pea patch? Are you hollering down the
rain barrel? Are you scraping around the bottom of the
pickle barrel? Are you sitting in the hat married set?
It was Joey Hart, one of Mr Martin's two assistants,
who had explained what the gibberish meant. She must be
(28:18):
a dodging fan, he had said, Red Boba announces the
dodging games over the radio, and he uses these expressions,
picked them up down south. Joey had gone on to
explain one or two tearing up the pea patch meant
going on a rampage, Sitting in the catbird seat meant
sitting pretty like a batter with three balls and no
(28:40):
strikes on him. Mr Martin dismissed all this with an effort.
It had been annoying, it had driven him near to distraction,
but he was too solid a man to be moved
to murder by anything so childish. It was unfortunate, he reflected,
as he passed onto the important charges against Mrs Barrows,
(29:01):
that he had stood up under it so well. He
had maintained always an outward appearance of polite tolerance. Why
I even believed you liked the woman mispaired, his other assistant,
had once said to him. He had simply smiled a
gavil wrapped in Mr Martin's mind, and the case proper
(29:22):
was resumed. Mrs all Jean Barrows stood charged with willful, blatant,
and persistent attempts to destroy the efficiency and system of
F and S. It was confident material and relevant to
review her advent and rise to power. Mr Martin had
got the story from Miss Pair, who seemed always able
to find things out. According to her, Mrs Barrows had
(29:47):
met Mr Fitweller at a party where she had rescued
him from the embraces of a powerfully built, drunken man
who had mistaken the president of F and S for
a famous retired middle Western football coach. She had led
him to a sofa and somehow worked upon him a
monstrous magic. The aging gentleman had jumped to the conclusion
(30:11):
there and then that this was a woman of singular attainments,
equipped to bring out the best in him and in
the firm. A week later, he had introduced her into
F and S as his special adviser. On that day,
confusion got its foot in the door. After Miss Tyson,
(30:34):
Mr Brundage and Mr Bartlett had been fired, and Mr
Munson had taken his hat and stalked out mailing. In
his resignation letter, Old Roberts had been emboldened to speak
to Mr Fittweiler. He mentioned that Mr Munson's department had
become a little disrupted, and hadn't they perhaps better resumed
the old system there. Mr Fittweler had said, certainly not.
(30:56):
He had the greatest faith in Mrs Barrow's ideas. They
require a little seasoning. Little seasoning is all, he had added.
Mr Roberts had given it up. Mr Martin reviewed in
detail all the changes wrought by Mrs Barrows. She had
begun chipping at the cornices of the firm's edifice, and
now she was swinging at the foundation stones with a pickaxe.
(31:21):
Mr Martin came now in his summing up to the
afternoon of Monday, November two, just one week ago. On
that day, at three pm, Mrs Barrows had bounced into
his office boom. She had yelled, are you scraping around
the bottom of the pickle barrel? Mr Martin had looked
at her from under his green eye shade, saying nothing.
(31:45):
She had begun to wander about the office, taking it
in with her great popping eyes. Do you really need
all these filing cabinets, she had demanded. Suddenly. Mr Martin's
heart had jumped each of these files, he had said,
keeping his voice even plays an indispensable part in the
(32:07):
system of f and s. She had brayed at him,
while don't tear up the pea patch, and gone to
the door. From there she had bawled, but you share
have got a lot of fine scrap in here. Mr
Martin could no longer doubt that the finger was on
(32:27):
his beloved department. Her pick axe was on the upswing,
poise for the first blow. It had not come yet.
He had received no blue memo from the enchanted Mr
Fitweller bearing nonsensical instructions deriving from this obscene woman, But
there was no doubt in Mr Martin's mind that one
would be forthcoming. He must act quickly. Already a precious
(32:52):
week had gone by. Mr Martin stood up in his
living room, still holding his milk glass. Gentleman of the jury,
he said to himself, I demand the death penalty for
this horrible person. The next day, Mr Martin followed his
(33:13):
routine as usual. He polished his glasses more often and
once sharpened and already sharp pencil, but not even miss
pair noticed. Only once did he catch sight of his victim.
She swept past him in the hall with a patronizing hi.
At five thirty, he walked home as usual and had
a glass of milk as usual. He had never drunk
(33:34):
anything stronger in his life, unless you could count ginger Ale.
The late Sam Schlosser, the s of F and S,
had praised Mr Martin at a staff meeting several years
before for his temperate habits. One of our most efficient workers.
Neither drinks nor smokes, he had said, The results speak
for themselves. Mr Fittweiler had sat by, nodding approval. Mr
(33:59):
Martin was still thinking about that red letter day as
he walked over to the Shafts restaurant on Fifth, a
New Near st. He got there as he always did,
at eight o'clock. He finished his dinner and the financial
page of the New York Sun a quartered at the nine.
As he always did, It was his custom after dinner
to take a walk. This time he walked down Fifth
Avenue at a casual place. His gloved hands felt moist
(34:23):
and warm, his forehead cold. He transferred the camels from
his overcoat to a jacket pocket. He wondered as he
did so, if they did not represent an unnecessary note
of strain. Mrs Barrows smoked only Lucky's. It was his
idea to puff a few puffs on a camel after
(34:44):
the rubbing out, stub it out in the ashtray, holding
her lipstick, saying Lucky's, and thus dragged a small red
herring across the trail. Perhaps it was not a good idea.
It would take time. He might even choke too loudly.
Mr Martin had never seen the house on wet twelfth
(35:05):
Street where Mrs Barrows lived, but he had a clear
enough picture of it. Fortunately, she had bragged to everybody
about her ducky first floor apartment in the perfectly darling
three story red brick. There would be no doorman or
other attendants, just the tenants of the second and third floors.
As he walked along, Mr Martin realized that he would
(35:25):
get there before nine. He had considered walking north on
Fifth Avenue from Shrafts to a point from which it
would take him until ten o'clock to reach the house.
At that hour people were less likely to be coming
in or going out. But the procedure would have made
an awkward loop in the straight thread of his casualness,
and he had abandoned it. It was impossible to figure
(35:48):
when people would be entering or leaving the house. Anyway,
there was a great risk at any hour if he
ran into anybody, he would simply have to place the
rubbing out of Old Jean Barrows in the inactive file forever.
The same thing would hold true if there were some
in her apartment. In that case, he would just say
that he had been passing by, recognized her charming house,
(36:11):
and thought to drop in. It was eighteen minutes after
nine when Mr Martin turned into twelfth straight. A man
passed him, and a man and a woman talking. There
was no one within fifty paces When he came to
the house halfway down the block. He was up the
steps and in the small vestibule, and no time pressing
the bell under the card that said Mrs Old Jean Barrows.
(36:33):
When the clicking in the lock started, he jumped forward
against the door. He got inside fast, closing the door
behind him. A bulb in a lantern hung from the
hall ceiling on a chain, seemed to give a monstrously
bright light. There was nobody on the stair which went
up ahead of him along the left wall. A door
opened down the hall on the wall on the right.
He went toward it, swiftly on tiptoe. Well, for God's sakes,
(36:56):
let who's here? Baled Mrs Barrows, and her braying laugh
rang out like the report of a shotgun. He rushed
passed her like a football tacker, bumping her. Hey, quit shoving,
she said, closing the door behind them. They were in
her living room, which seemed to Mr Martin to be
lighted by a hundred lamps. What's after you? She said,
(37:20):
here's jumpy as a goat. He found he was unable
to speak. His heart was wheezing in his throat. I yes,
he finally brought out. She was jabbering and laughing as
she started to help him off with his coat. No, no,
he said, I'll put it here. He took it off
(37:40):
and put it on a chair near the door. Your
hat and gloves too, she said, you're in a lady's house.
He put his hat on top of the coat. Mrs
Barrows seemed larger than he had thought. He kept his
gloves on. I was passing by, he said, I I recognized.
(38:02):
Is there anyone here? She laughed louder than ever. No,
she said, we're all alone. You're why is a sheet?
You funny man? Whatever has come over you. I'll mix
you a toddy. She started toward a door across the room.
Scotch and soda be all right, But say you don't drink,
do you? She turned and gave him her amused look.
(38:26):
Mr Martin pulled himself together. Scotch and soda will be
all right, he heard himself say. He could hear her
laughing in the kitchen. Mr Martin looked quickly around the
living room for the weapon he had counted on finding one.
There there were and irons, and a poker, and something
in a corner that looked like an Indian club. None
of them would do it. Couldn't be that way. He
(38:49):
began to pace around. He came to a desk. On
it lay a metal paper knife with an ornate handle.
Would it be sharp enough? He reached for it and
knocked over a small brash jar. Stamps spilled out of
it and fell onto the floor with a clatter. Hey,
ms His Barrows yelled from the kitchen, are you tearing
up the pea patch? Mr Martin gave a strange laugh.
(39:13):
Picking up the knife, he tried its point against his
left wrist. It was blunt. It wouldn't do. When Mrs
Barrows reappeared carrying two highballs, Mr Martin, standing there with
his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy. He
had wrought cigarettes in his pocket, a drink prepared for him.
(39:35):
It was all too grossly improbable. It was more than that,
it was impossible. Somewhere in the back of his mind
a vague idea stirred sprouted. For Heaven's sake, take off
those gloves, said Mrs Barrows. I always wear them in
(39:58):
the house, said Mr Martin. The idea began to bloom,
strange and wonderful. She put the glasses on a coffee
table in front of a sofa and sat on the sofa.
Come over here, you odd little man, she said. Mr
Martin went over and sat beside her. It was difficult
getting a cigarette out of the pack of camels, but
(40:20):
he managed it. She held a match for him. Laughing well,
she said, handing him his drink. This is perfectly Mira,
bless you with a drink and a cigarette. Mr Martin puffed,
not too awkwardly and took a gulp of the highball.
I drink and smoke all the time, he said. He
(40:43):
clinked his glass against hers. Here's nuts to that old
windbag fitweiler, he said, and gulped again. The stuff tasted awful,
but he made no grimace. Really, Mr Martin, she said,
her voice and posture changing, you are insulting our employer.
Mrs Barrows was now all special and isser to the president.
(41:06):
I am preparing a bomb, said Mr Martin, which will
blow the old goat higher than hell. He had only
had a little of the drink, which was not strong.
It couldn't be that. Do you take dope or something,
Mrs Barrows asked coldly. Heroin, said Mr Martin. I'll be
(41:27):
cooked to the gills when I bumped that old buzzard off,
Mr Martin, She shouted, getting to her feet, that will
be all of that you must go at once. Mr
Martin took another swallow of the drink. He tapped his
cigarette out in the ashtray and put the pack of
camels on the coffee table. Then he got up. She
stood glaring at him. He walked over and put on
(41:49):
his hat and coat. Not a word about this, he said,
and laid an index finger against his lips. All Mrs
Barrows could bring out was it really? Mr Martin put
his hand on the door knob. I'm sitting in the
catbirds seat, he said. He stuck his tongue out at
(42:11):
her and left. Nobody saw him go. Mr Martin got
to his apartment walking well before eleven. No one saw
him go in. He had two glasses of milk after
brushing his teeth, and he felt elated. It wasn't tipsy
in his because he hadn't been tipsy anyway. The walk
(42:31):
had worn off all effects of the whiskey. He got
in bed and read a magazine for a while. He
was asleep before midnight. Mr Martin got to the office
at eight thirty the next morning, as usual. At a
quarter to nine, old Jean Barrows, who had never before
arrived at work before ten, swept into his office. I
am departing to Mr Fittweiler. Now, she shouted. If he
(42:53):
turns you over to the police, it's no more than
you deserve. Mr Martin gave her a look of shocked surprise.
I beg your pardon, he said. Mrs Barrows snorted and
bounced out of the room, leaving Miss Pared and Joey
Hart staring after her. What's the man with that? Old
Daniel now, asked Miss Pared. I have no idea, said
(43:16):
Mr Martin, resuming his work. The other two looked at him,
and then at each other. Miss Peared got up and
went out. She walked slowly past the closed door of
Mr Fittweiler's office. Mrs Barrows was yelling inside, but she
was not braying. Miss Pared could not hear what the
woman was saying. She went back to her desk. Forty
(43:37):
five minutes later, Mrs Barrows left the President's office and
went into her own, shutting the door. It wasn't until
half an hour later that Mr Fittweiler sent for Mr Martin,
the head of the filing department. Neat, quiet, attentive, stood
in front of the old man's desk. Mr Fittweiler was
pale and nervous. He took his glasses off and twiddled them.
(43:58):
He made a small roughing sound in his throat. Martin,
he said, you have been with us more than twenty years,
twenty two, sir, said Mr Martin. In that time pursued
the President. Your work and your manner have been exemplary.
(44:19):
I trust so, sir, said Mr Martin. I have understood, Martin,
said Mr Fittweler, that you have never taken a drink
or smoked. That is correct, sir, said Mr Martin. Ah yes,
Mr Fittweiler polished his glasses. You may describe what you
did after leaving the office yesterday, Martin, he said, certainly, sir,
(44:43):
he said. I walked home. Then I went to Shrafts
for dinner. Afterward, I walked home again. I went to
bed early, sir, and read a magazine for a while.
I was asleep before eleven. Ah yes, said Mr Fittweiler. Again.
He was silent for a moment, searching for the proper
words to say to the head of the filing department,
(45:04):
Mrs Barrows. He said, finally, Mrs Barrows has worked hard, Martin,
very hard. It ringused me to report that she has
suffered a severe breakdown. It has taken the form of
a persecution complex accompanied by distressing hallucinations. I'm very sorry, sir,
(45:26):
said Mr Martin. Mrs Barrows is under the delusion, continued
Mr Fittweiler, that you visited her last evening and behaved
yourself in a an unseemly matter. He raised his hand
to silence Mr Martin's little, pained outcry. It is the
nature of these psychological diseases, Mr Fittweiler said, to fix
(45:49):
upon the least likely and most innocent party as the
source of persecution. These matters are not for the lay
mind to grasp, Martin. I've just had my psychiatrist, Dr
Fitch on the phone. UH. He would not, of course
commit himself, but he made enough generalizations to substantiate my suspicions.
(46:10):
I suggested to Mrs Barrows, when she had completed her
UH story to me this morning, that she visit Dr
Fitch before I suspected a condition to watch. She flew,
I regret to say, into a rage and demanded requested
that I call you on the carpet. You may not know, Martin,
(46:34):
but Mrs Barrows had planned a reorganization of your department,
subject to my approval. Of course, subject to my approval,
this brought you, rather than anyone else to her mind.
But again that is a phenomenon for Dr Fitch and
not for us. So Martin, I'm afraid Mrs Barrow's usefulness
(46:54):
here is at an end. I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, said
Mr Martin. It was at this point that the door
to the office blew open with the suddenness of a
gas main explosion, and Mrs Barrows catapulted through. It is
the little rat denying it, she screamed. He can't get
(47:14):
away with that. Mr Martin got up and moved discreetly
to a point beside Mr Fittweiler's chair. You drank and
smoked at my apartment, she bawled at Mr Martin, And
you know it. You called Mr Fittwiler an old wind
bag and said you were gonna blow them up when
you got coked to your gills on your heroine. She
(47:35):
stopped yelling to catch her breath, and a new glint
came into her popping eyes. If you weren't set to drab,
ordinary little man, she said, I'd think you'd planned it all,
sticking your tongue out, saying you were sitting in the
cat buried seat because you thought no one would believe
me when I told it. My god, it's really too perfect.
(47:59):
She brayed loudly and hysterically, and the fury was on
her again. She glared at Mr Fittwiler. Can't you see
how he has checked as you all fool? Can't you
see his little game? But Mr Fittweiler had been surreptitiously
pressing all the buttons under the top of his desk,
and employees of F and S began pouring into the room.
(48:20):
Stockton said, Mrs Pittweiler, you and fish bind will take
Mrs Barrows to her home. Mrs Powell, you will go
with them. Stockton, who had played a little football in
high school, blocked Mrs Barrows as she made for Mr Martin.
It took him and fish Mind together to force her
out of the door into the hall crowded with stenographers
and office boys. She was still screaming imprecations at Mr Martin,
(48:45):
tangled and contradictory imprecations. The hubbub finally died out down
the corridor. I regret that this has happened, said Mr Fittweiler.
I shall ask you to dismiss it from your mind. Martin. Yes, sir,
said Mr Martin, anticipating his chiefs that will be all
(49:07):
by moving to the door, I will dismiss it. He
went out and shut the door, and his step was
light and quick in the hall. When he entered his department,
he had slowed down to his customary gate, and he
walked quietly across the room to the double twenty file,
(49:29):
wearing a look of studious concentration. From the Thurber connorable
The Catbird Seat by James Thurber, I've done all the
damage I can do here. If you don't believe me,
(49:49):
ask elon Musk. Thank you for listening, at least for now.
My ability to promote this through Twitter is or to combat,
as the French say, so I am not being egotistical
this time. Get somebody new to subscribe, if you would
be so kind. Here are the credits. Most of the music,
including our theme from Beethoven's Ninth Theory, was arranged, produced,
(50:11):
and performed by Brian Ray and John Philip Chanelle, who
are the Countdown musical directors. All orchestration and keyboards by
John Philip Shanelle. Guitars based on drums by Brian Ray,
produced by t k O Brothers. Other Beethoven selections have
been arranged and performed by No horns allowed. The sports
music is the Oberman theme from ESPN two, and it
(50:31):
was written by Mitch Warren Davis courtesy of ESPN Inc.
Musical comments from Nancy Faust, the best baseball stadium organist ever.
Our announcers today were everybody. Everything else, though, was pretty
much my fault. So that's countdown for this the seven
tenth day since Donald Trump's first attempted to against the
democratically elected government of the United States. That's Donald Trump.
(50:54):
He and I were both suspended by Twitter arrest Trump now,
while we still can mare countdown Monday bulletin's as warranted
till then on Keith Overman, Good morning, good afternoon, goodnight,
and good luck. Countdown with Keith Olderman is a production
(51:18):
of I heart Radio. For more podcasts from I heart Radio,
visit the I heart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever
you get your podcasts.
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