I have to laugh at you wingnuts, especially those of you “deep thinkers” who sit around endlessly debating whether His Serene Majesty the Emperor Barack Hussein Obama II, Lord of the Flies, Keeper of the Hoops, Master of the Greens, Bringer of Kinetic Military Action, Vacationer-in-Chief, Slayer of Osama, Atomizer of the Economy, and Protector of the Holy Cities of Honolulu and Chicago, is Chauncey Gardiner, the anti-hero of Being There, or the Manchurian Candidate III: This Time, It’s Personal.
Why can’t the answer be both? I mean, it’s laugh-out-loud funny to watch you and your legions of Faux News “Rethuglican campaign consultants” twist yourselves into post–Labor Day pretzels trying to figure out Hussein — and, by extension, all those on the morally superior Left — by trying to shoehorn him and us into your standard white-bread political molds. Because the truth is, Troglodytes are from Mars and Progressives are from Venus and until you get that through those thick Neanderthal skulls of yours, you’ll never understand us, much less defeat us.
As you know from my legendary book
on the subject, my task in this life is to make you smarter, more worthy adversaries, instead of the pathetic, mewling sacks of Romneys
that you are. This is the job I have been given by my father, the sainted “Che” Kahane, who’s still living down there in Florida in Lanskyland
with his brother, my Uncle Joe, plotting the revolution and savoring the triumph of how far we’ve come, and how fast.
But so far I’ve failed miserably, since you idiots continue to live in a prelapsarian past, one in which the Right and Left shared similar hopes, dreams, and aspirations for the U.S. of KKKA, and you still think we can hash out our differences over a cup of Morning Joe. We used to meet for lunch by day and at the Rotary Club by night, a time of shared cultural values, Cold War paranoia, and endemic racism. Horrible as it may seem today, we lived in the same neighborhoods, sent our kids to the same schools, and once in a blue, gibbous moon even married each other.
Luckily, those days are gone for good, and I’m proud to say it’s our side that has made it so. We’ve self-segregated, not only into New York City apartment buildings and neighborhoods, but into whole states — commie “Red” for you (yuk, yuk — thanks, media!) and patriotic “Blue” for us. It’s like Underworld, where werewolves and vampires fight it out for global supremacy, but we’re evolving into Lycans and you’re evolving into a half-witted Caesar from The Rise of the Planet of the Apes.
But don’t worry: We’re not about to request partition, like India and Pakistan, or the Irish or the original Kardashians. We’re taking you over one state at a time, by any means necessary, moving from state to state like the aliens in Independence Day, sucking the life from one body politic after another and then, insatiable, moving on to the next one. We won’t rest until, like Dracula, we’ve extracted the life essence from all 57 or 58 states and leave your Christianist artifact of the so-called “Enlightenment” as dead as the Holy Roman Empire, and as little mourned.
Let me put this in terms you morons might possibly understand. For activists and advocates of my father’s generation, there were two career choices back in the ’60s through which they could effect their desire for fundamental change. The first was the law, the second (for the less intellectually gifted) was journalism. The tolerance-teaching Southern Poverty Law Center — founded on the belief that there would always be racist-caused poverty, now and forever, amen — or the New York Times — the only place on earth where it is always 1964 and that premature anti-Republican Lester Maddox is still taking a baseball bat to the black patrons of his Pickrick Restaurant in Atlanta.
Those too stupid to do either went into academe — but you knew that already, because you probably had some of them for teachers. But, luckily for us, they taught both disciplines.