A Perfect Circle
It isn’t as if the loonies who’d hijacked the national discourse have just started doing it. They’ve been doing this all along, flinging their scat and spunk at their jailers, setting their mattresses and toilet paper on fire, raking their tin cups across the bars behind which we’d justifiably put them.
They’ve been doing this all along. The problem is, we’ve been paying too much attention to the Glenn Becks, the Michele Bachmanns, the Dick Cheneys and the Joe Wilsons even as they scream into the night for someone to remove the spiders from their torn skin and the four liberals in the government who comprise their four point restraints.
Every Sunday we have group therapy sessions euphemistically called the Sunday talk shows, with supplementary follow-ups during the week in the right wing of our institution we’ll call Fox Arkham Asylum. We watch them squat on their haunches atop the little, shit-smeared, slightly-gnawed plastic chairs, looking for microscopic hobgoblins under their fingernails and entertaining these lunatics as if they’re our equals. It’s a bad, bad asylum because in Psychiatry School 101, you learn on the first day to never feed a patient’s delusions.
But all the same, we hate to discourage them and they’re so entertaining as they masturbate like Viagra-engorged rhesus monkeys, shriek like howler monkeys while never quite reaching the level of panache and intellectual sophistication of the higher primates such as silverback gorillas or orangutans.
And what’s irritating is that they generally repeat themselves, the Glenn Becks, the Michele Bachmanns, the Dick Cheneys and the Joe Wilsons. They’ve perfectly come full circle in their therapy and have regressed back to 1993.
Because there was once a man named William Jefferson Clinton, the unholy bastard love child of 1000 maniacs in a considerably more upscale asylum known as the Bilderberg Group. On Clinton’s watch, terrorists attacked the World Trade Center and succeeded in killing a few people and fucking up an underground parking garage.
Clinton had the temerity to get himself elected by tens of millions of people who were sick and tired of George HW Bush taking off for days at a time on his little cigarette boat with low-level diplomats instead of focusing on the fucking economy which by this time was on life support after 12 straight years of anti-union, tax-cutting corporate welfare.
Slick Willie saw a way out of our mess and it’s the fault of liberals, progressives, Democrats, moderates, independents and Clinton himself for letting democracy win for the penultimate time.
But this fucked up the timeline of those who wanted regime change in Iraq, who wanted to do to the economy what Jack the Ripper did to Mary Kelly, and who didn’t give a shit who was President provided it was some Republican milksop who had enough sense to stay the fuck out of their way.
Slick Willie promised to balance the budget in five years and did it in three. He lifted millions above the poverty level by making earned income credit count again. Jobs were created by the millions. Sure, he also gave a lot of those jobs away with NAFTA, buttfucked teh gays in teh military with sand in the Vaseline and again with the Defense of Marriage Act. But even on his evilest days, Clinton still looked damned good doing it, better than Bush, Sr. on his best day.
And that was unforgivable.
Then we started hearing howls from Arkham Asylum about how Clinton wasn’t really the president. They’d masturbate in a dark corner like Multiple Miggs and fling semen at the press and screaming, “Whitewater! Get it?!” They’d torch their monthly toilet paper allotment and hoarsely bellow about the Lincoln Bedroom, Vince Foster, the White House post office, haircuts at LAX, a New World Order that was actually crowed about by HW Bush and Mark Rich until their balls, bladders and bowels were empty. He was Hitler, he was Stalin and, worst of all, he was Lothario.
Then on a reinforced, creaking clamshell came Monica Lewinsky, human manna lowered to these maniacs courtesy of a heavenly Botticelli/Republican Jesus Production. Watery little puddles of conservative cum appeared on the streets of Washington, DC leading straight to Ken Starr’s office at the Justice Department as the short-stroking orgy began, lasting until January 20, 2001.
And these same people who’d spent $70 million pruriently and puritanically investigating an office blow job and set more toilet paper rolls and mattresses on fire over Clinton lying about said blow job to a grand jury that was created over a blow job suddenly realized the error of their ways and learned Christian forgiveness with the ascension of George W. Bush.
The patron saint of James Dobson, Tony Perkins and war profiteers showed them the error of their ways. This lowly sinner could do no wrong in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary and the purifying flames of retribution guttered out, brothers and sisters, because the inmates had finally taken over Arkham for eight years. Having learned their lesson from the Clinton witch hunts, it no longer mattered that a $127 billion surplus magically melted away in the first of two tax cuts and was retroactively labeled a deficit and a recession.
It no longer mattered that he lied us into a war, then another without making any serious attempt to get the bad guys who’d pulled off 9/11 on his watch. It no longer mattered, even, that a major American city and 1800 of its residents were essentially abandoned and left to die by the federal government that moved more swiftly to further displace the victims who survived than to rescue the ones who ultimately didn’t.
It no longer mattered that he took away all of our constitutional rights and eventually checked off virtually every one of the amendments starting with the first. It no longer mattered that he spied on us by the millions under the pretext of looking for terrorists.
Even the authorities, led by Dr Pelosi, realized that Christian mercy was what was called for and even a stern talking to was off the table because George was still the Randall Patrick McMurphy of our national asylum and the rest of the patients so looked up to him and loved his jokes and pornographic deck of cards.
But, alas, all good things come to an end and eventually the grownups had to take over again and now the inmates are getting restless again. And they’ve come full circle. Now there’s another Democrat in the White House, another centrist, another bastard love spawn of the Bilderberg Group.
And he’s not really the president, don’t you know? He’s Hitler, he’s Stalin, he’s a fascist, he’s a Socialist, he’s a Communist. He’s from the nation of Africa, he’s a Muslim, he’s a smoker and he’s going to hypnotize our kids and make them join his Commie, Islamofascist cult.
Except this time around, from the moment Obama threw his turban into the ring, the damnedest things have been said, things we never heard before even when Slick Willie was President. Now, the elected lunatics are taking their cues from the lunatics who make up the rabble, who in turn get their talking points from the lunatics who provide the health care in this coast-to-coast asylum, who in turn provide the elected lunatics who keep them well-funded, hence incumbent.
What a nice, perfect circle and we can go back to hating a Democrat who’s about as far from being a liberal as Clinton was, a man who, when slapped in the face by the Republicans, is then accused of not being bipartisan enough by not turning the other cheek so that one, too, can get slapped. A radical protégé of terrorist William Ayers who acts before white Christian men less like a radical and more like a pre-Civil Rights black man trying to talk his way out of an inevitable lynching.