Boil, Meet Lance

The only excuse for David Brooks’ existence is the fuel he supplies to the dyspetic fires roaring in the belly of Doghouse Riley.  According to Brooks, the GOP has experienced a Harmonic Convergence of Crap; the signs, portents, and polls all indicate that it’s time to reposition the Brand, and the party elders have summoned their most fecund minds to the tribal think tanks, where the intellectual warriors are purified with bran muffins and spring water before gathering in a drum circle to spit-ball, strategize, and eventually grunt out the political equivalent of New Coke.

And as usual, the Hoosier Sage sums it up best:

Now you think admitting that the pooch got screwed! somehow! is enough, and if you just congratulate yourselves long and loud enough for your Reagan fanboydom Ross’ll be able to figure out how to repackage all those old Welfare Queen anecdotes for a generation that would rather not be known as unrepentantly racist, and you’ll be back on top again. Pluck a Duck, even Reagan, an almost wholly fictional creation, was sold to the rubes as Good for America! You people don’t even care anymore. There are serious consequences to your behavior the past quarter-century, serious as a fucking tumor, and none of them have to do with the fate of your think tanks, though a lot of them have to do with their output. The Reagan Revolution did not take a wrong turn. It arrived. You have not hit a rough patch; you’ve been found out. In a less well-off, less compromised, more socially responsible nation you people would be sharing an ice floe, debating whether its shrinking dimensions were just more of Al Gore’s propaganda.

Some may dispute that the pen is mightier than the sword.  But there’s few things more therapeutic for a suffering body politic than a lancet dipped in Northern Copperhead venom.  Click and enjoy.  It’ll only sting for a moment.

Posted by scott on July 22nd, 2008