I may be no paragon of sanity, but frickin’ A
Jeebus reebus kuhneebus, are we living in some crazy times or what? I have to say that I’m glad I don’t own a television, because most likely I would be glomming onto the endless Fox News Channel broadcasts that tout these not-ready-for-prime-time pols 24/7. It took me long enough to break the Jersey Shore jones I’d picked up, to where Snooki and The Situation and the rest of those attention prostitution whore-ahs look too brutally stupid for even a moment’s consideration. Nevertheless, I’d be lapping up the Foxaganda Flavour-Aid like sweet nectar of the devil if I could watch this ongoing train wreck. Heck whiz, I might even believe some of these stoops.
I mean, Christine O’Donnell? Where are they trolling for these nitwits, anyway? PTA meetings in towns where research indicates that the citizens will engage in a punch-up at a trucker hat’s drop over the dumbest little trigger event, like juice boxes in school lunches? If I wanted to go all Alex Jones, I’d say this thing is being orchestrated in some Scottish Rite lodge gone black by a naked Rupert Murdoch, covered head to toe with the methamphetamine-enhanced menstrual blood of Ann Coulter, reciting passages from Albul Alhazred’s Necronomicon while remixes of Insane Clown Posse jams blast in the background and Sean Hannity gets buggered by a Hillerich & Bradsby strap-on wielded by Michelle Malkin with play-by-play delivered by Elmer Fudd.
This is the dumbest group of politicians ever foisted on the American public. Ever. I don’t think that you can go back in American history and find a stupider group of political candidates than the gaggle of geezers and Mordor of assclowns that the Republican Party and the teatard movement is flogging this year, bankrolled of course by Murdoch and those two bonehead brothers from Wichita named Koch who make Dixie cups, Northern bumwipes and Brawny paper towels and other Georgia-Pacific paper products, along with a bunch of other butthurt billionaires whose sphincters crinkle at the prospect of a progressive income tax.
I guess I grew up — he says, gumming out some Methuselah news for you whippersnappers — at a time when Republicans weren’t all wild-eyed and crazy, when guys like the late California Assembly Speaker Bob Monaghan would talk in even tones about how we should try to keep our government’s spending in line with tax revenues, and how we should make sure that business owners get their voices heard because they create and sustain jobs. I mean, my whole family was Republican, except maybe for me and my cousin Peggy, but none of them was brown-acid crazy like today’s GOP. Well, then we elected Reagan as governor at the end of 1966, around the time I was just getting into the Kinks, and then it was all downhill, because Old Dutch Boy Painthead was a front-stooge for the syndicate that’s now dragging us back to the Fourteenth Century. Crazy is as crazy does, I guess.
Once I took some scary vittamins, “Vitamin L,” as we used to call it, and thangs got a little too squinky for comfortable navigation, what with fruitless mulberry limbs reaching down snaking around my arms and trunk like boa constrictors and lifting me off the ground, thistles sprouting and growing miles into the sky in seconds and cars jumping around the street like too many Mexican jumping beans. I went home to be safe, and my room filled up with water, so I panicked and ran outside and hid under a bush, shaking. It was a Saturday night, and my dad’s calm voice lulled me back into the house. He had a huge chrome spike growing out of the top of his head like one of those World War I-era German army helmets, but he convinced me to watch some Japanese monster movie with him on Bob Wilkins’ show. Actually, it was that, followed by one of those creepy Hammer vampire films from England. I was totally fried, and the whole experience licked my decals off for weeks to follow.
Still, that was nowhere near as crazy as what the Republican Tea Party is serving up today. —Jackson Griffith