Hey, Patriot!

Until we see an actual picture of you in uniform, heading off to stand with those hundreds of thousands that you so cavalierly tear away from their families and plunge into danger, howzabout shutting the fuck up?

This is Nathan Taylor, chairman of the upcoming YRNC 2005 (which, believe it or not, stands for the Young College Republican Liberal-Baiting, Binge-Drinking, Big, Bellycrawlers Reacharound Party), and it just so happens that I was reading about him and his sleek Brother Rats a little while ago as I was listening to a bit on our local NPR show – “Odyssey” -- about Citizenship and “Talking to Strangers”. About learning to talk to people who differ with you. As an exercise in Good Citizenship, I am being told that we have to try to put ourselves in the position of those who differ with us.

Um.....noooo. Not so much, no.

In point of fact, fuck that.

We tried it, and like Aristotelian physics, Phlogiston Chemistry and Romanian/Tex-Mex fusion cooking...it doesn’t fucking work.

Tried being nice.

Tried pretending that the Christopaths were just other wacky branches of the Jesus Tree to be Liberally Tolerated. Tried pretending that Segregationists were just a buncha good-ol’ boys chock full o’ Southern Pride and eventually they’d grow out of their White Supremacist psychosis.

Tried...and with any other bunch, sure, it's worth it, but the sheep does not dicker with the wolves over what's for lunch, and you do not compromise with someone who practically puts right on their motherfucking letterhead that they plan to annihilate you once they grab enough power to get the job done right. This is a basic fact of life that a fair numbers of Liberals cannot seem to comprehend: That you do NOT try to find common ground with thugs who are trying to destroy you.

That's not smart or broad-minded; it's just stupidly suicidal.

Now if any of the soft, pink Moderate Republican Bunnies in the media or in the government ever showed signs of spontaneously generating a spine and throwing the Dobsons and Schlaflys, the Weyrichs and the Falwells – the objectively hateful, ruinous Christopath cultists – the Hell out of their party...we would have a LOT to talk about.

But face it, liar, free-floating moral plankton and the Amazing Remote Diagnostic Superhero of the Schiavo Affair -- Herr Senator Docktor Frist -- is wholly own and operated by James Dobson; is simply a whore, who dutifully regurgitates anything his pimp spits in his mouth. And McCain – the Man Who Would Be King – sold out his credibility and any “maverick” status he might have had the day he decided to crawl up Bush’s sphincter and become just another benign Moderate Polyp lodged deep inside the POTUS' heinie.

Sadly, as the Moderates damned well know in their heart of hearts, the Dominionist Gargoyles have long since taken over Lincoln’s Cathedral. Now they bum around outside, pitching pennies and talking tough while the reckless madmen who kicked them to the curb and stole their party plot the ruin of the Nation in the Apse of their once Holy Place.

The Chaffes, the McCains, the Snowes...they slink in the shadows, drawing their tattered Small Government rags around them, playing out some ghastly, humiliating, Norma Desmond/Sunset Boulevard charade, pretending that they're still Big Shots in a wholly imaginary Republican Party that is long, LONG dead in everything but name.

But since they have neither the honesty nor the integrity to acknowledge that the Party they once loved is a corpse – murdered by the very vampires they themselves invited in – they’re reduce to scampering around out in the cold like some out-of-favor pet that no longer amuses a tyrant child. Listening hungrily for the dinner bell, hoping that they can scrape together one last shred of their dignity to barter away for whatever greasy scraps fall off of Karl Rove’s plate.

And like a Gilbert and Sullivan version of “The Stand”, the spawn of the wraiths who now dress up and dance in the Dead Flesh of the Party Once Known as Republican are gathering in Las Vegas next week to plot their various mini-me evils. Mostly trying to figure out a way to Whitewash the fact that they are vociferously cheerleading a war based on what we in the Real World call LIES...while scattering like roaches when the Recruiter Man come around.

Shit, they could carpet-bomb the Nevada Desert with bleach and Pantone Perfect White paint until it looks like fucking Hoth, and it still wouldn’t be enough to cover up all that Fluorescent Mendacity and Day-Glo Coward’s Yellow.

I tells ya, we are just one Hunter Thompson short of one helluva “Fear and Loathing...” sequel!

So no. Sorry. You don’t argue with drunks and, more than anything else, these man-children are completely smashed on power, and it’s a very primeval, very dark kind of wine that they have gotten a hold of. A toxic, wormwood liquor that leads always to the kind Slave Owner/Apartheid Master thug intoxication that Athol Fugard dramatized in, “‘Master Harold’... and the Boys.”

A very particular and perverse kind of sneeringly-vicious-drunk that you only get when callow, untutored children are given the power to play with the lives of their elders. When they can sentence to mutilation or death men who are often old enough to be their fathers...all without a single consequence.

It’s primal.

Archetypal.

Generational.

In one, appalling Oedipal Stroke these emotionally ingrown man-children have found a way to symbolically slay their Fathers by literally consigning thousands of their betters to death...while they cower stateside and never muss up their snappy summer outfits with the blood.

In one swift, Old Testament thrust, they’ve taken up the role of David and ordered loyal Uriah the Hittite out onto the battlefield so that they can fuck his woman with impunity.

And that is all that this ouchless, taxless, sacrifice-less “support” comes to: a chance to grease the treads of their future careers with the blood of the fallen. A way to make a little, quick political pocket change by pawning the shoes of the dead.

No, from Elder Douchebags of their tribe to the eagerest Young Fucktard anxious to make his bones on the bones of others, these are some despicable little puckered sores on the body politic who positively ooze Red, White and Blue Fascism, and they have to go.