Discourse.

In the words of Glinda, the Good Witch of the North:


“Why, British Balls! You don’t need to give a definition of Discourse. You’ve been doing it all along!”


Still, we here at British Balls remain skeptical of sugar-coated platitudes doled out by weird floating broads appearing to us in the form of ball-lightening.


Call us persnickety.


Perhaps Glinda would have us ignore the granddaddy of all discourse, the brilliant and grape-leaf devouring Socrates (b. long ago, BC – d. slightly less longer ago, BC). Truly one of the great thinkers of Ancient Greece, Socrates’ greatness sprouted from an unflinching understanding that man’s quest for knowledge is contingent upon the realization that he is, in fact, ignorant of all that he knows or will ever come to know. This is best summed up in his famous dictum “Man, I don’t know SHIT!”

… or something to that effect.


The uncomfortable truth is, while Socrates was clearly an evolutionary leap forward for philosophical discourse, we have no real evidence as to his vocabulary, elocution, or cadence. Socrates was notoriously fickle when it came to writing down his thoughts, or anything for that matter. It was not uncommon for him to head down to the market, stand in the middle of aisle five with his empty shopping cart (or shopping Crete, as was the fashion amongst Laconophiles), and just stare at the olives for hours on end.


It is only through other people’s works that we have come to know Socrates. Most notably, it was Plato who brought the mysterious Philosopher into the pop culture mainstream. Sadly, Plato’s insecurity and desperate need of anonymous affection led him to present a more easily accessible Socrates to the ignorant masses. Unable to stomach the emotional daring of a one-man show, Plato circumvented Socrates’ dense and rambling discourses by turning them into anecdotal, easily digestible vignettes; most famous for their “Socratic” dialogue.


In a sense, Plato was very much the Quentin Tarantino of his time. In the same way that mealy-mouthed stoners who sit through Pulp Fiction would never dream of trying to navigate their way through the works of Federico Fellini or Jean-Luc Goddard, so too did Plato’s followers agree that Crito was:

“Totally awesome! Especially when Cepalus is all like, he who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden. And then Socrates was all, like, But I rather suspect that people in general are not convinced by you when you speak thus, before he goes on to add, you are rich, and wealth is well known to be a great comforter, before BLOWING his ass away and getting Marsellus’s suitcase… It’s so way fucking genius!” (Leo Strauss, Natural Right and History, 1950 – director’s cut)

Alas, Plato’s only remaining contribution to Western Civilization was the hyper-obsessive and overwhelmingly frustrating Platonic relationship; sure, they may be free of all sexual contact and excitement, but at least there’s no shortage of maddeningly chaste and topical lunch dates… Thanks a lot, asshole!

* * *

To add insult to injury, Glinda the Good Witch also fails to realize that the term Discourse did not enjoy widespread germination in the United States until January 5, 1961. It was this day in history that saw the debut of a wildly original sitcom centering around Adeimantus (son of Ariston) and his wacky but fruitless attempts to get Socrates out of the House of Ploemarchus.

The show was entitled Mister Ad, and was immortalized in its theme song, written by the Jay Livingston and Ray Evans:


A discourse, discourse,
Of course, of course.
And no one can discourse
Discourse, of course.
That is of course,
Unless discourse,
Is the famous Mister Ad!

The show remained trapped in the dark and muddy waters of syndication through July 2, 1961. It was finally picked up by CBS, set to premier on October 1 of that very year. However, Frank Stanton, president of CBS, was concerned that the highbrow premise might overshadow the capricious and horribly racist Amos n’ Andy show. After many acrimonious and bitter clashes between Stanton and creator Walter R. Brooks, a compromise was at long last forged.


Brooks would get full screen credit for the revamped show, while Stanton would assure the spirit of the original lived on in its new, Nielsen-friendly premise: a young architect by the name of Wilber Post goes stark-fucking-batshit-insane and, under orders from a talking horse, systematically destroys his life and the fragile relationships of those around him.


In a sense, this made Frank Stanton the Plato of his time. Making Quentin Tarantino the Frank Stanton of his time. Thus, once again, making Plato the Quentin Tarantino of his time, and effectively sending our discourse into a full, inescapable, never-ending nightmare of a Möbius Strip.


Unless, of course, we’ve had the power to go home all along…