Velociworld

Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing

I've enjoyed watching the rightosphere gin up the Outrage Machine over the Blago the Terrible melodrama. And Beelzebama knows its been a rough year for conservatives. Having to rally 'round the execrable John McCain, and watching with stunned dubiety as a callow and inscrutable will o' the wisp materialized from the bowels of the most corrupt political snakepit in the Northern Hemisphere, there to ride triumphant upon the shoulders of an hypnotically credulous press to the greatest gig in the land, would give any conservative a horrid case of the marthambles.

I feel that pain. Aye, I've shared that particular distress, when one realizes a majority of one's fellow citizens are absolutely and irrevocably stupider than a bag of Chinese drop-forged bolts. Or venal. Or gullible. Or guilt-besodden. For there were no rational reasons to vote for the fucking cypher, other than greed and stupidity. (Which reasons are, admittedly, at the end of the day, pretty fucking rational).

To the Blagojevich affair: it is indeed the tip of an especially loathesome iceberg, a floating block of unscrupulousness. Pretty much what everyone has always known and understood Chicago-style politics to be. Abominable? Certainly. Shocking? You have to be fucking kidding me. As a dog returneth to his vomit so a fool returneth to his folly, the Good Book (as opposed to the evil Araby one) tells us. And a Chicago whistle-stopper must needs always return to that pile of puke that greases his ambulation.

Back to my frothing brethren: I am dismayed and saddened at their exhiliration. It is the selfsame sense of giddiness and euphoria I felt upon learning of the Lewinski chicanery, or the last time I inhaled an entire E cylinder of nitrous oxide. Believe me, Intrepids, that Panglossian feeling will pass rather more quickly than a kidneystone in a bouncing boat.

The O-vulator is impalpably untouchable, lest ye have forgotted. He is diaphanous, a gossamer creature you will never lay brute paws upon. The Pellucid One will certainly be implicated in all manner of improprieties as this malodorous onion is peeled, however there will be no Judgment Day for Him. No reckoning of the soul.

To convolute a truism, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make a sound if the forest refuses to be a fucking forest? There is no press, no Fourth Estate any more, any way. That responsibility was fully and finally abdicated over the last grievous election cycle. Combine that notion with the sad fact that the average citizen is a torpid brute with no intellectual curiosity, and the fact that the bellies of even the most "poverty-stricken" of our fellowmen are bloated with foodstuffs entitlements, and you have a perfect storm of civic disaster.

Lookee: Barack Obama could literally erect an altar upon the heights of the Supreme Court, and practise Mayan sacrifice, and he would be absolved. The still-pulsating hearts he held aloft would be evocative of centuries-old slavemaster brutality. The severed heads he toppled down the steps would evince proof of his unwilling absorption of corrupt western values.

Am I being overwrought and excitable? Sadly, I think not. Every day we are feted with far worse examples of media exculpation of this insipid fraud. One actually cannot make this shit up.

Paint me mercurial and intemperate, for I am alarmable. Then visit me in four months. For even as the Terror swept France, and the Committee for Public Safety found much solace, and safety, in the disconnexion of tête from corps, so events can ofttimes move at speeds faster than we may capably osmose.

A bold predication, which I might walk back at whim: 27 miscreants guilty and incarcerated, including three minor pupgullions from Obama's transition team. No more. The O-bstinate One might possibly have to throw a first tier vampire such as Rahm Emmanuel under the bus in order to shoot his cuffs and dust his sleeves of taintitude, but that sort of bus-begrinding was made for the Executive Pardon, so weep not for Rahm.

I bewail and bemoan our circumstance as citizenry. Having said that, good luck. See you in the Archipelago. And don't ask for any shitpaper. It will be far too dear. We'll be writing our travails and history upon it, after all.

Apocalypto!