Between an Ass and a Hard Face
I find it laughable when I read (or unfortunately see) right-wing pundits talk about how someone like that dopey actor-turned-politician, Fred Thompson inspired them at the Republican convention–how Fred brought the hall to its feet and infused them all with the ANWR-provided, drill-baby-drill energy required to ensure that the country stays the course for the next four years.
I can’t find any inspiration in any of it. It’s as repulsive as a diarrhoetic dog turd melting on a hot Mombasan street.
I could never see myself clad in a blue blazer with anchors for brass buttons, Mao pin pinned to my left lapel, near my dear heart, a straw boater atop my large head, screaming with clenched fist, “Yeah! Fred Thompson! YEAH!!!!!”
“YEAH!!!!! THOMPSON!!!! YEAH!!!!”
“Fred Thompson is fightin’ for me! He’s gonna take it to them elites in Washington. THOMPSON!!!! YEAH!!!!”
And I want no more of those dark days for McCain in the Hanoi Hilton; I don’t want that script read back to me; I don’t want the grainy images set against the flapping flag; I don’t want to be told that its “service first” or whatever that awkward Orwellian slogan is this time around. It ain’t about service anymore; it’s about getting to be the president making people think it’s about service.
And while I’m ranting like that crazy guy with the Sharpie pen and the cardboard sign outside the White House, what’s up with that empty suit; that glassy-eyed, pedophile-looking “family values” tsar, Gary Bauer. I had the misfortune of seeing his picture in the paper and reading that he said “values voters” tended to favor someone with a resume like Sarah Palin’s.
What does that mean? Because I don’t subscribe to his warped manifesto; because I don’t listen to him and John Ashcroft belting out in Sunday church about eagles soaring and silver towers rising; because I don’t ride the Sea of Galilee ride at the Holyland Theme Park, that makes me a what?
Does that make me a “non-values” voter or an “evil-values” voter?
WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
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It was no better two weeks ago. I also couldn’t seem to find anything to charge my fist in the air to when I heard Fightin’ Joe Biden deliver his FIGHTIN’ for the hard-scrabbled Scrantonians of the world–the hard workin’, toothpick pickin’, coal minin’, country truck-drivin’, my dad was an elementary school janitor-remindin’ acceptance speech.
Can you possibly charge your fist in the air to that supercilious megalomaniac? Can you wave the little flag on the stick and say “Yeah! Fightin’ Joe Biden! YEAH!!!”
The unfortunate 10 seconds that I watched of the entire Democratic convention were filled with a fat-faced, gray-haired, gray-bearded Michael McDonald taking up the entire screen, moaning some tribute to this country, banging away on a piano with his fat fingers.
I’m sorry but there’s nothing there either.
Yeah! A full-time Sentator! Yeah!!!!! Now were talkin’ change.
Hope’n'change, hope’n'change….
Hope
and
Change.
Hope this and hope that; change this and change that: with a lifelong, glad-handing, Senator at your side. Now that’s some hopenchange.
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Ode to Larry the Cable Guy.