Democrats Are Burning – (2008)

Aquarian Weekly 3/19/08 REALITY CHECK

THE DEMOCRATS ARE BURNING Same Ol' ShowThe unabated immolation of the Democratic Party, ceremoniously sparked with extreme prejudice by the Clinton Machine two weeks ago, has now officially become a raging firestorm. From prostitution rings to racist blather and return salvos of “monster”, the flames of remorse will soon swallow up everything in its path. Before the first cherry blossoms bloom in Washington DC, whatever is left of this rancid collection of rogues, creeps, felons, and dumb asses will likely be the better part of cinder.

Ah, poor Eliot Spitzer. He needs it rough, and not just hair-pulling, ass-slapping rough. It’s games the governor needs. Adult games, chaired by professionals utilizing tools of the trade, the varied sort one cannot transport on a post-9/11 flight anymore. And the girls are harder to come by these days too. The really discreet ones with the bravest hearts have to be purchased and shuffled across state lines via railway on the tax-payer tab, laundered from several bogus companies and check-listed by text-message.

It is high times for a man of lawful pursuits, full of zest to clean things up and set right the ways of the universe. Vices don’t come cheap for crusaders.

We have come a long way from the honorable Horatio Seymour or Samuel J. Tilden, who likely entertained fantasies of being tied up in baby bonnets and slapped around like the dirty little maggots they truly were, but apparently were fortunate enough not to be cursed with the Dipshit Gene. It is a nasty affliction spawned by power and hubris, something we have seen all-too prevalently in our elected officials as of late, perhaps to the point of prompting a telethon to combat it.

Wake up Jerry Lewis, we have a problem.

The Dipshit Gene, an endemic side effect of political theater for centuries, has recently wreaked its havoc on the former governor of New Jersey, who enjoyed the odd Israeli boy between illegal land grabs and backroom pay-offs. It has also claimed a Republican Idaho senator, who found a sliver of wiggle room in his anti-gay pogrom to troll insatiable delights from airport men’s room stalls. Then there was the Florida congressman, who could not help but solicit the lurid notations of teenaged boys. And who could forget the senator from Louisiana taking time from his moral outrage to accrue a hefty escort service bill of his own.

All the names are well documented, and their tales, all-too familiar, and, sadly, their wives all-too compliant to the obligatory press conference frown.

Oh, the Dipshit Gene has its collateral damage victims aplenty. Time after agonizing time we see these wounded heroines standing beside their shamed men with solemn expression and a curious but unyielding determination; an excellent example to all the young girls out there just waiting to get their talons into a rich and influential up-and-comer, only to be publicly humiliated as the useless prop they will become.

Oh Lord, how many more of these educated, ambitious young women will be felled by this endless parade of slobbering cretins? How many more of them will set the bar lower for a limping women’s movement left to defend college basketball players at the mercy of evil radio geeks?

Watching the mortal remains of Silda Spitzer, a proud graduate of Harvard Law and mother of the disgraced governor’s children, covered from head-to-toe with heaps of Dipshit run-off, one had to be reminded of Hillary Rodham Clinton postulating weird Right Wing Conspiracy theories on the Today Show circa 1998 in defense of her husband’s chronic misogyny.

Oh Lord, how many more of these educated, ambitious young women will be felled by this endless parade of slobbering cretins? How many more of them will set the bar lower for a limping women’s movement left to defend college basketball players at the mercy of evil radio geeks?

The questions abound. And perhaps it was the sting and tenor of those questions that rendered mad the furious nonsense tumbling from the maw of former Democratic VP nominee and now former Clinton fundraiser, Geraldine Ferraro. In a coincidental mental fart worthy of Grandpa Simpson, Ferraro made it clear on three straight speaking engagements from a podium, on the radio, and then to something called the Daily Breeze that Barack Obama is the cheap bi-product of an African-American bamboozle.

“If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position,” a reportedly drug-free Ferraro told the Torrance, California paper. “And if he was a woman (of any color) he would not be in this position. He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept.”

It was soon after this beer-spit idiocy hit pavement that Ferraro completely lost whatever is left of her atrophied mind and claimed she was somehow misinterpreted. Of course, never in her neck-wrenching backtrack did she explain what else she could have meant; maybe it was that Obama “wears black” or prefers “black automobiles” or that the knuckle-dragging mutant who claimed Bill Clinton was “the first black president” has rendered Hillary black by association. Hey, it could have transpired during all those crucial years of alleged experience she compiled while cleaning out the White House vases.

But the news wasn’t all doom and gloom for the Clintons, who have stumbled four ways to Sunday to deny, eulogize or duck their association with Spitzer and Ferraro. Ferraro is chump change. It was Spitzer; a soon-to-be subtracted Super Delegate in the Clinton Camp, whose insane suggestion that New York State issue licenses to criminals a few months back transformed the Unsinkable Madam Shoo-In into the last-chance kamikaze pilot she is now forced to be.

Mere days before the Spitzer revelations and the Ferraro meltdown, an Obama foreign policy aid and campaign big-shot, Samantha Power unforgivably forgot that journalists print conversations in newspapers and told one of these types that Ms. Hillary was “a monster”, putting the Clinton Machine into combat mode and throat-jumped that thing down all of our gizzards for close to a week.

This was the clearest evidence there are cracks in the Teflon Master Barack and the faintest hope that stealing this nomination is still alive and well for April 22, a mind-screwing six weeks away.

Meanwhile, as the Republican Party chants “Burn baby burn!” with every match added to the already spreading wildfires, the tanned and rested John McCain collects his fundraising checks, smoothes the Conservative wounds, and plans a diplomatic cross-globe trek, which will cement any question he is a man of experience and sober ideals.

And to think, we have re-votes in Michigan and Florida to come.

Florida? It’s tough enough for these people to vote correctly the first time.

Burn baby burn.


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