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Barry! Barry! Barry!
We are the ones who are ready to get it over with already.


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O.K., so the wind has been blowing in the other direction on the Continent lately. But who cares if those “garlic noses,” in Pastor Wright’s felicitous phrase, want to reelect a plutocratic fascist like Berlusconi? Italian politics are like the weather in New England (or North Dakota, or Texas, or wherever you live) — wait five minutes and they’ll change again. And it was a sad moment indeed when we Democrats realized that, for the first time since the Big One, no Communists would be seated in the Italian parliament. But hey — we still have Zapatero in Spain and that British prime minister, what’s his name, the Scottish guy wandering around Washington complaining that nobody’s paying attention to him because the pope’s in town.

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No, the scurrilous attacks on Barry were totally unfair. And they were made worse by his halting, uncertain and downright embarrassed responses, replies so bad that they never came close to tipping the Obamamometer into the red zone. I mean, the pathos was unbelievable. And there was Hillary, Queen of the Undead, cackling in the corner as our brave Barry tried to deal with the underhanded tactics of Messrs. Gibson and Stephanopoulos.

Furthermore, none of the issues they clubbed Obama with really matters to the average voter, such as me. What we want to know is this: how fast is he going to extricate us from the hellhole of Iraq? How much is he going to raise taxes, so we can get our accountants thinking ahead as to how to avoid them? How is he going to make life fair? And how is the federal government going to take care of us, the Little People?

O.K., maybe not take care of us in Hollywoodland. Sure, times are hard here, especially when you have to decide between leasing a new Jag or buying a Prius to help save the planet. Or maybe do both, so that they carbon-offset each other and you can feel virtuous about driving either one.

But take care of you. Yes, I’m talking to you, you poor benighted helpless fools who can’t function without the beneficent help of Uncle Sam. You, who can’t pay your mortgages, can’t afford to send your kids to decent schools, are forced to pay nearly $4 a gallon for gas so you can drive your miserable selves from your soulless suburbs into horrifically declining inner cities, on your way to work as bail bondsmen and exotic dancers. You know who you are.

O.K., so the mortgage crisis affects almost nobody; we liberals managed to turn the public schools into the nightmares they are today; our noble environmental policies forbid oil companies to, you know, actually drill for oil off the California coast and in Alaska; we haven’t built any new refineries for a decade or more; and most of what you’re paying for gas goes right back to federal, state and local governments in the form of taxes.

Still, none of that should matter. Bambi was right to look like a wounded faun as Charlie and George disgracefully pounded on him. And who among us has a soul so dead that he couldn’t listen to BHO Jr., righteously complain: “that was the rollout of the Republican campaign in November. They will try to focus on these issues that don’t have anything to do with how you’re paying your bills at the end of the month.” Because it plainly says, right there in the Constitution, that the federal government primarily exists to help you pay your bills.

Or, rather, it will, after we win this election, appoint more justices like Ruth Bader Ginsburg and David Souter, and I finish the rewrite.

David Kahane is the nom de cyber of a Hollywood screenwriter. You can write to him directly at [email protected] He thanks you for your letters and wants you to know he is not Dennis Miller, Mark Steyn, Pat Sajak or Vincent D’Onofrio.



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