Wakey, Wakey

Eggs and Bakey.

It’s morning in America.

Again.

And not that Folger’s Coffee, golden shafts of light streaming into an impossibly tidy bedroom morning. The Certa Mattress commercial morning of perfect hair, lineless faces and not a single grizzle of beard stubble or REM-drool-slobbered chins.

Not the Pre-Armageddon Dawn of Reagan thumbing the launch codes and thinking of Jesus.

Not that morning: the other morning.

The I’ve-plunged-down-from-orbit-into-a-pit-of-my-own-hurl-and-effluvium morning. The suddenly bolt upright in terror in a strange city, in a stranger’s musty, stale-gin bedroom at 10:00 a.m. and I've missed my flight and what is that rash morning. The what-am-I-sleeping-in-that-my-toes-are-squishy morning.

The departure of Michael “The Horse Litigator” Brown from his resume buffing, frat-boy-storage-unit sinecure at FEMA means that a genuine storm has caught the Bush White House at anchor in a shallow harbor, and the cannon have started to break loose and crash around the deck.

And all so preventable.

For example, the rest of us out here in the real world looked on in a particular kind of horrified fascination as Fredo was elevated by the GOP, not to merely the status of stong leader, but to Sun King.

Dear Leader was Infallable. 100% mistake-free. Never a discouraging word spoken of Dubya the Wise. Dubya the Sage.

A man who has been a conspicuously wretched human being his entire life. The kind of mean stupid drunk who would shove a lit M-80 up a cat’s ass and then throw it though a box fan just to see which’d kill it quicker.

And then giggle.

A stumblefuck perfectly suited for the role of the Supervillains’s retarded sidekick, holding the bank vault door open for his pal Dick while Cheney loots the place and holds Dubya’s meager and meandering attention by telling him about the Rabbits.

(One can only imagine the scene at the White House as Cheney stomping back to D.C. to deal with the consequences of leaving George unminded and undiapered for weeks.

George doing a little gotta-pee dance, nervous that Dick might fire him or something.

"I can still tend the rabbits, Dick?")

For five long and ruinous years, Dubya has held the Cult of Reagan Party in a kind of trance that has been both tragic and morbidly riveting to watch. Millions of fat-assed, blue-nosed American Fundamentalists who expend every waking breath endlessly hectoring the rest of the human race on their moral failing on every subject large and small...and yet find Dubya as sinless as Sweet Baby Jesus. Moral turncoats who cower behind Calvary, defiling Christ and handing our free bareback blowjobs to every Republican Hypocrite and Pharisee...while they lob the every stone in the Old Testament at “the least of these”.

Men of God who excoriated Clinton for every one-pixel-wide detail of his life, and yet who (as I have said before) could catch Dubya throwing flaming kittens at homeless veterans on the White House lawn and find a way to call it Strong Leadership in troubled times.

Which all works fabulously well as long circumstances never force Dear Leader to admit he has made a mistake...because then things start to fall apart, and for the same reason that that Christopaths never admit to scriptural error: because if there is one, there may be two. And if two, why not many?

Which might lead to too many rocks being looked under by too many people who aren’t loyal to the Cult.

The problem being, when the whole sad circus depends on the absolute infallibility of Dear Leader, and Dear Leader compliments Brownie on the “heckuva job he was doing” ( which could only be considered true if his job – his whole job – was to successfully facilitate fucking NOLA back into the middle of the 16h century by the liquidation or exile of its entire population) and then Dear Leader has to sack his boy before the week is out behind his catastrophic, serial and lethal failures...the infallibility shield is breached and who knows what kind of impertinent questions the rabble might ask of Dear Leader?!

This from that Wolcott fella (go read it all):

“For Hurricane Katrina has broken the post 9/11 spell that held everyone in thrall to terrorism and terrorism alone as the paramount menace on the horizon. (Compare the lyrical emoting Peggy Noonan has done since 9/11 with her dry, chapped response to Katrina.) Whatever the final numbers are from Hurricane Katrina, it will be harder for the WOT propagandists to ritualistically invoke the "3000 dead" to the same sonorous effect. Those deaths have reached their expiration date, not for mourning, but for political, cultural, and military exploitation.”

With Bush poll numbers rocketing towards the Center of the Earth faster than you can say James Mason and Arlene Dahl, it would appear that while the evil cabal of Conservative Fundamentalist, Segregationist and Chickenhawk wings of the GOP grows ever more distilledly shrill and insane every day, some small number of Moderates are slowly shaking off the booze and the pills and the promises of endless tax cuts, finding the nation not in a the perfumed boudoir of a lovely lass but lashed to the butcher-block in Bush’s blood-slick basement abattoir and asking themselves, “What did we get ourselves into?”

To which I can only reply, “What do you mean “we” you chancred Bushfluffin’ whore?”