...in his high-chair, at 4 a.m.
Rubbing strained beets into his hair and crying for Lost Conservative Daddy to come back and donkey-punch him until he starts acting like a real man.
Well, as was the case with “Beware! The Blob!”, it turns out the amorphous Sequel BoBo is even dorkier and more poorly produced than BoBo: The Original Series.
Because it is an iron-bound rule that big, shapeless mounds of menacing mucilage need lean plotting, gooey-oozy special effects, tight sweatered-girls in peril and a bad-teen-gone-good hero subtext to rope in the younger demographics to keep the audience from noticing that the monster itself is just fucking boring.
Oh, and Steve McQueen.
None of which David Brooks brings to the table, so whereas the Original BoBo was, well, awful, BoBo the Sequel is unbelievably awful.
You see, just after Katrina -– for an interval measurable only by CERN or Lawrence Livermore using instruments designed to measure the rapid decay of particles that can only exist in the laboratory -- it appeared that BoBo had finally consented to conscience transplant. Watching all of those poor, black citizens being abandoned by the criminally inept Bush White House seemed to have awakened the shriveled seed of compassion from underneath the miles of “Fuck ‘Em All” tundra that is the moral wasteland of Modern Conservativism.
And then having to listen to the racist heart darkness of the GOP – usually kept barely muzzled and under wraps – blossom like a runamok melanoma and come screaming out of the closet, full-throated and shotgunning bile in every direction, seemed to have acted as a grow-light on the wee hemp-plants-of-kindness that began peeking out from the cracks in the pavement.
Ah, but it was not to be.
After his brief flirtation with a non-dogmic appraisal of the performance of the Bush White House (Awful. Terrible. Bad.) one might be forgiven –- having read his smelly column -- for speculating that some person or persons unknown took BoBo out for a ride into desert in the Windowless Jebusmobile. Parked. And then had him get out, get naked, dig own his grave and lie in it weeping like a child for 17 hours while his captors fed him bad acid and talked about what a shame it was he decided to cross the Dark Lord.
Then they gave him an IBM Selectric and had him hack out a properly apologetic "Please Forgive Me" slab of flabby prose.
And now, like fawning memory plastic, BoBo has snapped back once again to the role that puts food on his table, a roof over his kennel, and all the awful pink ties he can use: Cheney’s Imperial footstool and personal, Behind-The-Knee-Aneurysm polisher (‘cause it’s all tickly back there, and requires an especially soft touch and a velvety tongue.)
The number One Refugee from the “Special Class” wing of the NYT is back, baby!
Back ensconced in his carefully, climate-controlled conservative greenhouse where shambling GOP obsequi-bots with marginal typing skills are cultivated like rare blood-orchids; kept detached from nature, fact, reality and direct sunlight, and raised on manure – still steaming and fresh – from the Oval Office chamber pot..
Just another bit of ill-fitting, threadbare pair of Peekaboo gutless, crotchless panties hanging in King Karls’s Kover-up Kloset, now apparently making up for the Frequent Fawning Miles he lost during his brief bout of Katrina-induced decency by publishing this smell slice of gamey tripe (transcribed by little, ol’ me from actual paper-paper, from his gotty, little Op-ed entitled “The Harry da Reid Code”)
Harry Reid sits alone at his kitchen table at 4 a.m., writing important notes in crayon on the outside of envelopes. It's been four weeks since he launched his personal investigation into the Republican plot to manipulate intelligence to trick the American people into believing Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction.
Reid had heard of the secret G.O.P. cabal bent on global empire, but he had no idea that he would find a conspiracy so immense.
Reid now knows that as far back as 1998, Karl Rove was beaming microwaves into Bill Clinton's fillings to get him to exaggerate the intelligence on Iraq. In that year, Clinton argued, "Iraq still has stockpiles of chemical and biological munitions ... and the capacity to restart quickly its production program and build many, many more weapons."
These comments were part of the Republican plot to manipulate intelligence on Iraq.
Reid now knows that in the late 1990's, Dick Cheney and other Republican officials used fluoridated water in the State Department and other government agencies to brainwash Clinton administration officials into exaggerating the threat posed by Saddam Hussein.
Harry Reid sits alone at his kitchen table at 4 a.m., writing important notes in crayon on the outside of envelopes. It has been four weeks since he began investigating this conspiracy and three weeks since he sealed his windows with aluminum foil to ward off the Illuminati…
Harry Reid sits alone at his kitchen table at 4 a.m. He knows now that seven centuries ago at a secret meeting of the Bilderberg Society-Trilateral Commission-American Enterprise Institute, the six High Lords of the Secret Order of the Neocons decided to implant alien life forms into potential Democratic officials that could be activated in case there was a need to manipulate intelligence on Iraq.
And so forth.
Sick. Deeply pathetic. And positively damp and reeking of shrill desperation.
Ah well, driftglass’ First Law of Craven Motion clearly states that conservative thralls at rest remain at rest and conservative thralls in motion remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force.
Like a 2X4.
However what is worth noting about this particular exercise in mawkish prose is the combination of a grunting-childish-screed level of chimp-pounding-with-thumb-and-elbow bad typestry, and it’s wildly out of proportion level of squalling hysteria.
If he had just written, “Harry Reid Bad Man. Bad Touch Man, Harry reeed. Harry Read make BoBo Mad! Bad Harry Rheed Man!” four of five dozen times it would have had the same effect, but might have been less of an embarrassment to the NYT. At least that way they might have been able to shrug it off as BoBo spazzing this out while succumbing to another bout of Chickenhawk Flu, OD-ing on NyQuil and Propecia…sitting in his underpants behind a snowbank of used tissues, watching “I Married a Communist!” for the tenth time and weeping at its transcendent beauty and timeless truths.
Instead, the NYT now has to suppress its gag reflex yet again and face the fact that BoBo actually put some thought into the snotwad he just smeared across their pages.
And that they actually pay him handsomely to do it.