I Can See Clearly Now

In an interview with MSNBC's Kasie Hunt today, Governor Rick Perry of Texas said that "Presidential campaigns are not I.Q. tests."

Based on the evidence, that is a belief common to Republican Presidential contenders.

And their last President.

I have immense respect for Ms. Hunt. I would not have been able to keep a straight face.

I Wish I May, I Wish I Might

Questions for Dick Cheney:

      Did you ever drink Human blood?

      Have you ever consumed Human flesh?

      Which do you prefer?
    
    

Pity the Fool

 With all the family gatherings that seem to be mandatory at this time of the year, many of us will find occasion to envy the orphan.
 Upon reflection, when calm and rational thought is, once again, possible, we find instead that we must indeed pity him. For, though he is spared the gift lists and family obligations, he must face the end of the old year and the beginning of the new without any assistance in the discovery and cataloguing of all of his failures and shortcomings.
 Can any one of us, surfeited with kin, imagine the utter desolation and loneliness of seeing in the new year without such a catalogue?
 To the orphan, the coming year could possibly be a tabula rasa on which he must tread without guidance or direction. He might, indeed, find that he is heading in directions, and down roads he never knew existed. He may discover, at the end of that year, that he has travelled to places unimaginable the year before, and re-made his life totally anew.
 As I said, we must pity the orphan.

Decline and Fall- A Blogger's Tale- part the first

 The autumn of 2012. Heady days for those of us addicted to politics. Karl Rove and Dick Morris were guaranteeing victory for their champion; the Billionaire Boob Club was pouring in cash; and your correspondent was in the middle of it all. How can I describe the constant whirlwind of visits to all of my most important and reliable think tanks and research institutions, day after day, from happy hour to last call, for months on end? And how can I get across the horror of finding myself in a government detention facility where I was required to complete a certain number of 'steps' before I could regain my freedom?
 Yes, heady days. Much of that time remains a blur, my memories fuzzy- probably from government mind control devices- but some images remain.
 I recall the man who, on the strength of Gingrich's primary victories and promises to put poor children to work, was about to launch a line of janitorial wear for grade-schoolers. He even planned a kid-sized equipment line: Mops for Tots. There was the man who 'just knew' that Herman Cain would win the election and feed the poor with pizza. He invested everything he had in mozzarella futures.
 Where are they now, those patriotic, hopeful, optimistic, idiots?
 I cannot say. I can only tell you what happened to me.

 On Halloween day 2012, I was in Sarasota Florida covering a speech by the Vice President, who had appeared in character, if not in costume. I spent that night writing my blog at a local think tank decorated like a tiki hut, overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. I approached the bar for another drink, intending to try to get something without a little umbrella in the glass. I noticed a down-in-the-dumps looking guy, wearing a slightly seedy suit and a forlorn expression. He looked like he really needed someone to talk to, so I headed for the other end of the bar. Unfortunately, he looked up and spoke to me as I passed.
 "Sir, you strike me as a perspicacious and sympathetic soul."
 Well, he was half right. I was about to correct him on the sympathetic part, when he instantly endeared himself to me with that much beloved and universal gesture of peace and brotherhood that signalled that he was buying. I naturally sat down next to my new-found friend, who ordered something that was served in a coconut shell and with, of course, a paper umbrella. The drink was sweet and cool and went down smoothly, unlike the conversation, which dragged until I began to pay attention.
 "You just can't run freak-shows anymore," he was saying. I thought, at first, that he was referring to Republican politics. The election was only days away, after all. But no. He was talking circuses. "My great-grandfather was a talent scout for ol' P.T. Barnum himself," he said.
  "He could go into a small town bar, buy a few rounds for the locals, and the next thing you know, he had the address of another bearded lady or alligator man." While he was talking, I managed to get the barkeep to bring over a pitcher of beer, without umbrellas, so I could concentrate on his story. "Great- grandpa eventually realized he could do better going solo and started his own sideshow. My grandfather and then my father carried on the tradition into the early seventies, when sideshows became impossible to run," he said sadly.
  "Because of political correctness and civil rights?" I asked.
  He shook his head. "Plastic surgery and electrolysis."
  He ordered a shot of whiskey and downed it fast. "We went bankrupt. I had to drop out of college. I bummed around for years and eventually ended up in the merchant marine."
  It seems, though, that all was not lost. "We had to overhaul an engine in Australia. I was stuck in Sydney for two weeks. One night I found the answer to my prayers in a little pub."
   I started to tell that him lots of people find their prayers answered in pubs, but he interrupted me.
"Dwarf tossing," was all he said.
  He was getting animated now. It seemed that the Aussie penchant for aerial homunculi might restore his family's fortune. "I knew that the idea would fly over here. My family not only had the showmanship, but my maternal grandfather had done all the PR for the Munchkins. I knew every little person in Hollywood, and they never had enough work." My new friend quickly secured the rights from the local promoter and headed home.
  "We built up a dozen or so circuits that hit every redneck and biker bar in the country. I was making money hand over fist until it all fell apart again."
  "Because of injuries and liabilities?" I asked.
  He shook his head. "Political correctness and civil rights."
  Apparently protests had sprung up almost from the beginning. "That's why we held the events at biker and redneck bars. They were sort of self policing, if you know what I mean." Eventually, though, the tide of public opinion caught up with dwarf tossing. "States started passing laws against us. As rich as I was, I wasn't rich enough to afford a lobbyist of my own, and we finally got shut down."
  In the face of this dreadful, heartbreaking tale of sorrow and woe, I almost felt guilty as I gestured toward the empty pitcher. After a refill, he finished his story.
  "I found a sympathetic politician in Florida who tried to get the law changed, to no avail. But I feel a lot of sympathy here, and I think that if Romney wins we can start over again." I have to admit my admiration for this man was growing with every drink I swallowed. Not only was he not giving up, but his reading of the political 'tea leaves' was right on the money. "The Republicans haven't got any kind of jobs plan, and I'm the kind of small businessman they admire. We'll employ lots of people and kick those bleeding heart PC liberals in the ass. It can't fail. I was even able to pick up a warehouse full of tiny janitor uniforms for a song." He was very excited now. "The only problem is that I've used up most of my working capital, and..." he looked at me meaningfully.
  Now I realized everything. I saw through it as easily as I could see through the vodka in my shot glass. My knew found friend needed an angel. Here was my chance to get in on an amazing business opportunity. Without another word, I whipped out my checkbook and emptied the account on what  could only be described as a 'Sure Thing.'
  As hung over as I was on the flight back to New York, I still had to smile at my great luck. All the stars were now lined up for me: politically, economically and, most importantly, bachiccally (my friend had given me a case of single malt scotch to seal our partnership.)
  On election night I watched my favorite conservative network, and sipped scotch, with the confidence that my fortune was tied to President Romney's. As the returns came in, I realized that the electoral victory promised by the conservative media was not to be. Both the election and my fortune were wiped out.
  Of the debacle and disaster of the wee hours of that night, where I lost everything, I will say only this: I was apprehended at the Fox News studios where I tried to see how far up Karl Rove's ass I could shove a tot-mop.
  The story of my subsequent arrest and internment must await another day. Since my downfall I've had to rely on my local library's computers. And, if the impatient kid who keeps poking me is correct, my time at this terminal is up.

A Note to Readers

Even though no one has posted any queries, I know that you, my loyal followers, have been wondering at my long absence from this space. My readers are nothing if not discreet. (Except, perhaps, imaginary.)

Suffice it to say, my friends, there is a long and and wonderfully interesting story in this, as in all aspects of my life. Unfortunately, time does not now permit me to tell it. Rest assured that I will fill in all the juicy details in the coming days.