OOPS!

Okay, I'm totally new to this, but here goes:

Here are notes on the national insanity, probably provoked by the horrible spectacle of the Boehnerites' latest efforts to de-modernize, medievalize, deconstruct and reconstruct the US Government into a facilitator of the planters' paradise, with the darkies or chinamen or whatever singing melodiously in the fields while the white boys play golf and eat steaks. I mean, we're there already but it can clearly get worse, or they wouldn't be working so hard to make it so. The "Reign of Error" is a nod I guess to Thomas Frank.

The wrecking crew's tee shirts all say "OOPS!" in large letters. Half a million dead Iraqis. OOPS! A trillion dollars up in smoke. OOPS! World economy on the ropes. Matching his and hers OOPS! tee shirts to Phil and Wendy Gramm on that one! The deficit debacle. OOPS! It's a Republican Deficit after all. Their creation. All the while the white boys play golf, eat steaks, and paint pussycats, evidently.

Their fear is that people will one day have a "blink" moment, an instance of zen mind clarity, look up from their plate of palaver, and ask themselves if someone like Tom DeLay ever deserved to be one of the most powerful people in the world. I mean, really. Which of these doesn't belong?
1. Thomas Jefferson
2. Abraham Lincoln
3. John F Kennedy (even)
4. Tom DeLay

Sorry, but the man is an irredeemable piece of shit. Ditto Lee Atwater (was), Newt, Jack, Rove, Rush, Hannity.... Ralph Reed? Who the hell let him off the used car lot. They've got the troops, you have to admit. Das Boot. A great tactical team in the service of a strategic nightmare squad.

When your only tools are a wrecking ball and jack hammer everything looks like a burned out building. Oh, wait, there are people in there! Children and Oldies last! Every man for himself! Sorry, you say there's assets in there? I'm going in! Personal Property first!

And meanwhile The Hammer, King Herod in Hush Puppies--Hush Puppies with cleats--carries on in the self assurance that he has a personal relationship with The Man. The King will come again, Sir Tom, and you will not see Him. He will come to the sweatshops, not the pro shops, to those with nothing, not those with platinum cards and their white legs sticking out. Oh, they love their little balls. Whack, Whack, Whack. Let the darkies get the divots!