Imagine There’s No Lennon
It isn’t hard to do.
by Kenneth Roberts
TRAITOROUS race-mixer John Lennon died forty years ago this week, shot in Manhattan when karmic justice was finally served.
It was Lennon who was the pied piper of the infamous “counterculture.”
It was Lennon who fed mind poison to the millions, teaching them that “all you need is love.” It was Lennon who mocked his betters as “All-American bullet-headed Saxon mother’s sons.” It was Lennon who pioneered the “feminine man” and the “house husband,” showing millions of men the way to get in touch with their inner sense of surrender.
It was Lennon who sat on his millions and told us to have no possessions; it was Lennon who acquired the inestimable prize of American citizenship and who preached that there should be “no countries.”
My fondest recollection of this prize nincompoop was in the days after he died. Radio stations everywhere were playing nothing but Lennon or Beatles’ songs, though strangely one that they didn’t play was “Happiness Is A Warm Gun.”
It was during this peak Lennon saturation point that as a teenager I got in a car with my friend’s father.
After starting the car he turned on the radio — Beatles song.
He changed the station — Beatles song.
Once more — Beatles song.
Nothing but Beatles songs.
He then glanced my way and gave me a look of determination and satisfaction, and then he said “watch this.”
He then turned the radio to a country station, and the beautiful and peaceful lilt of a nice Southern twang met our ears.
Basking in this wonderful and sweet melody my friend’s father then looked at me again and said what I to this day assume to be the sum of all wisdom:
“They won’t be playing that dirty hippie here.”
No they won’t; and no they didn’t, God bless their country hearts.
And on this fortieth anniversary as the liberal boomers melt in squalid nostalgia all I can say is what is also wisdom: Good riddance to bad rubbish.
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