a euphemism for P's poorest prose: warm excrement flowing from a pathetic puppet's mouth

[alice wellintown]

Re-reading this section I am struck by the lazy prose P slides into
here as the ladies depart and with them the need for euphemism, which
is quickly replaced by the needless use og blasphemism when Sarsdale
launches into his sermon, a stilted screed, a crappy ranting parody
that might have been written by Howard Zinn for his cartoon version of
American History we see an evil plutocrat blow out verbal balloons, no
onomatopoeia or x#ck UZE, but we sense that P is too lazy to write a
decent parody, say,  of Letters from an American Farmer by J. Hector
St. John Crevecoeur or of Emerson, or, were he giving it the old
college try, Whitman, so we get this absurd little speech that no
character, not even Scarsdale, not even Brock Vond, would ever make;
it's all double think Orwellian political puppet teetering.