Kill Them Before They Feast

There is nothing to be joyful about in Greater Los Angeles tonight - certainly not in the twisted bowels of this fire-breathing chasm of political abomination known as Hacienda de los Locos - because, 3000 miles east in the cultured depravity known as the White House, my old Yale cheerleader sidekick, Dubya, is gnashing his teeth with the knowledge that he screwed up ... The hyenas are circling the Oval Office looking for flesh - like he always feared would happen once the dust settled on this latest hijacked election, as a result - and this pains me to no end, to know that I cannot be within him in the same greasy foxhole today, thrashing those filthy congressional rejects like Audie Murphy machine-gunning krauts back into the woods of the French countryside.

Please
Human being
If you bleed
they will say it was destined
They'll be punchin' tickets
For the minute if you fall out of line

A killer remix just popped up from the steel curtain known as the Apple G5 ... then suddenly, CSPAN (Can Somebody Please Audit these Numskulls?) interrupts with another replay of the immediate fallout from the derailed $338 billion omnibus bill: Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist is stammering like a minister caught with a transvestite street walker in Las Vegas past midnight, demanding that "accountability will be carried out" against whoever slipped a provision into an omnibus spending bill that would have allowed two committee chairmen to view the tax returns of any American ... and John "Batshit as the Day is Long" McCain, the preznut's favorite campaign landmark, is flapping elbows from within the straight-jacket holding his labile mood together, "If there is ever a graphic example of the broken system that we now have, that certainly has to be it. How many other provisions didn't we find in that 1,000-page bill?" ... while Democratic Sen. Charles Schumer of New York called for a "full and complete" investigation into how the language got into the bill, followed by "appropriate punishment" for those responsible ... and the Chimperor is relaxing, as it were, in his mock-up of a real dude ranch enclave in Crawford, Texas, girdled by a macabre assortment of trained government assassins and his normal Secret Service detail ... Most assuredly, you can hear the clinking of ice and Wild Turkey in jelly jars as the team of presidential spokespersons - Ari Fleischer's cursed replacements - manufacture another hastily authored press release absolving the White House staff of everything from inciting the basketbrawl incident in Detroit to Oprah giving away a fleet of Pontiacs to a herd of pre-euphoric pinheads ... and the White House media assemblage is fuming with guilt-raked journalists, ready to attack any new statement like a horde of starving Komono Dragons, to come clean on all the dirt they uncovered but never reported during the campaign when Dubya was riding the crest of his deception wave ...

Why, oh why, does Bobo use bumbling assistants to do his bidding, instead of the cool world of the internets? Why does he let them serve apple martinis instead of Jim Beam, neat? Why does he prefer boxer shorts with the Seal of the President of the United States stitched into the waistline? How can he let them turn his existence into a glum reminder of everything plastic, asexual and unforgiving? Whenever I ponder the the essence of Dubya's White House I get a heavy sniff of outright human withdrawal. The preznut and me appear to approach things from opposite directions on everything - except the NFL, and his fondness for the sport has recently delivered to me a great deal of fresh introspection and the angry conclusion that professional football isn't everything it's cracked up to be. Just about anything that Dubya finds enjoyable has to be suspect. Even barbecue and organized religion.

Now's the time for stepping out of place
Get up on your feet and give account of your faith
Pray to God or something or whatever you do
What I see can make me stop and stare
But who am I to judge the color of your hair
Surely all you're feeling much the same as I do

The final grim revelation from this last election cycle will most likely come back and haunt us: The candidates were clearly defined, and all the major players except Dubya were grilled mercilessly, by so-called experts who demanded to know where each stood on issues like Affirmative Action, Deficit Control, Economic Policy, Healthcare, National Security and Defense, and where they landed on the morality scale with regards to locust-infested wedge matters like Abortion and Gay Marriage. Almost everyone with a brain and a pulse, likely to vote in the November march of fools, understood that Dubya and John Kerry were two extremely different people: not just in the context of their party affiliations, but within their personalities, temperament, intelligence, and even how they spent their free time.

It was not what Chimpy McFlightsuit had in mind when he said, during the bus tour that followed his raunchy coronation in New York, that through the campaign, "people will always know where I stand" - but on a level the preznut will never fully comprehend he was certainly being more honest than even he cared to admit ... because it is Dubya himself who symbolizes that joyless, crooked and hopelessly violent side of the American spirit that every other country on the planet has come to dread and view with horror. Our bastardized Roy Rogers preznut, with his vacant Dale Evans wife and his pair of Barbie Doll nitwit children who are one turn of bad luck from working the soda stand at WalMart, has become America's tale of the Joker grinding Gotham City into dust. He represents the savage villain in all of us: the bombastic bully, the devious defrauder who evolves into something unimaginable, a row of fangs and razor-sharp claws tearing at the belly, on those long nights when the moon gets a little too full.

Just after 2:00 AM in D.C., a rabid green-eyed abomination with the legs of an elephant and the head of a Texan leaps from a window near the Rose Garden and races past the South lawn, pausing briefly to feast on the carotid artery of a Secret Service agent, then charges off into the shadows ... towards the U.S. Treasury, sneering with genuine lust, tearing along the darkened alleyways behind 15th Street, trying to remember if Paul O'Neil kept an apartment close by and settling on a couple more Capitol policemen for an afterhours snack.

Bad dream, there, for a second. But I was scared there. The preznut of the red states would never act this way. At least not until his Inauguration Day was complete. Apocalyptic is not exactly the right word to describe what happens once the November vote is certified and the Electoral votes are finally cast, when one of the most despised politicians in the vast wasteland of American History suddenly jets to Will Rogers status, while his erstwhile underlings and party associates are being caught daily in neo-nazi schemes that would have made Albert Speer blush with embarrassment.

When does this next honeymoon feast finally end, and how long will it be before "deranged extremists" in France and maybe Russia begin referring to us as A Country of Dogs and Fiends? How would the preznut's press people react? Try a couple of no comments followed by a smear campaign on the cable TV talking heads shows. And exactly how would the Chimperor's popularity polls sway if Dubya just went in front of a national television audience and admitted that it was all true?