How stupid are you guys? No, don’t answer that question. We already know.
I mean, Jose, Maria, and Jumpin’ Jehosephat, it’s only been a few weeks since your convention caught those of us on the Bambi/Axelrod/Rezko/Daley/Ayers/Dohrn/Soros/Alinsky/Wright/Pfleger/Rahm Emanuel/Barney Frank/Pelosi/Reid/Marx/Lenin/Stalin/Hamas/Hezbollah/al-Qaeda patriotic side of the aisle with our pants down, and now you’ve gone and pretty much squandered everything. Nice work — with enemies like you, we don’t need friends!
Your first and biggest blunder, of course, was Sarah Palin. No, I don’t mean picking her. That was brilliant. The Talking Parrot had the Fighter Pilot on the ropes when suddenly the Moose Hunter showed up, rifle in hand, ready to take on the Hair Club for Men and maybe even the great Barack Hussein Obama II Barry Soetero Barack Hussein Obama Jr. (D., Present), the only begotten son of Miss Stanley Dunham and the Kenyan Bigamist/DUI victim, Barack Hussein Obama I.
But then you buried her. Psyched her out. Played by our rules. Sent her into the lions’ dens of Charlie Gibson and Katie Couric, just like we demanded. Sheer genius, letting her get her first taste of a 98-MPH purpose pitch on national television, instead of bringing her along in the Friendly Confines of wingnut talk radio (which we’re going to shut down via the Fairness Doctrine redux on Nov. 5). Quick — the Bush Doctrine? Where’s Russia? Who’s Yehudi? What’s your favorite color? This never would have happened if Mike Murphy was still around!
Even better was that manic stunt by McCain last week, pogo-sticking between his “suspended” campaign and the Corridors of Power, only to finally, meekly, show up in Yoknapatawpha County to play patty-cake with the Bambino. Not that “I have a bracelet, too, it’s right here on my wrist, I’ll never forget the sacred memory of good old what’s-his-name” Barry was any good. He smirked, he simpered, he scowled, he seconded the motion, and generally acted like the Eternal Graduate Student he really is, sucking up to Jim Lehrer (Jim — have you had work done?) as he tried to score a perfect 10 on the Obamamometer. Which, of course, the press dutifully awarded him.
So the Apocalypse Now Bailout Deal is all but done and who’s claiming the credit? We are! Yes, my friends, the very same boyar apparatchiks who got us into this mess — the Hon. Barney Frank (D., Unopposed) and Chris Dodd (D., Countrywide) — are prancing around the halls of Congress and basking in the glory of your $700 billion that’s bailing out their buddies, while Blinky and the Boxer stand by, beaming proudly. Is this a great Cook County Machine — excuse me! country — or what?
My point is, it’s time for you to admit defeat. Throw in the towel. Or, as we say in our second native language here in L.A., yell: No mas! For you can’t beat us, Wilder/Bradley Effect or no Wilder/Bradley Effect. With “early voting” already underway (who thought that up — sheer Alinskian genius!), we’re going to invalidate every one of those military absentee ballots; who cares what people too stupid to go to Harvard think?
We’re going to disqualify as many of your voters as we can — as Randy Quaid shouts in Independence Day, “Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it, Ohio!” — and we’re going to “wide stance” you to death in the Mountain West. Even if McPain/Falin’ do well in the forthcoming “debates,” our operatives at NBCCBSABCNYTCNNMSNBC will somehow see it another way. Our way.
Which is why I’m thrilled to tell you that my agent called me yesterday to say she just got me the most coveted gig in Hollywood at the moment — an original adaptation/rewrite/radical rethinking of C. S. Lewis’s reactionary, jingoistic piece of Christianist claptrap, The Screwtape Letters. And you know what we’re going to call it? Sure you do:
The Screwalinsky Letters: This Time, It’s Personal. I’m still screwing around with the treatment — it’s not due until after the election, which is a good thing because I’m desperately trying to refinance my $4 million house here in Echo Park, which at the moment is worth about $350,000 — but basically the story concerns an apprentice devil, Wormobamawood, who tries to seduce and corrupt an entire county as his mentor, Screwalinsky, looks on with approval. And unlike the original, this one has a happy ending: the country goes to collectivist hell, and instead of ending up on his uncle’s plate, the hitherto-nonentity, Wormobamawood, becomes president of the United States. Only in Hollywood!
If Saul could dedicate Rules for Radicals to Lucifer, the least I can do is humbly follow in the Great Man’s footsteps and dedicate this movie to him. I mean, just look what a magnificent contribution to our country the original Chicago community organizer has made. “Think globally, act locally,” that was his motto. Undermine everything. In is out, up is down, treason is patriotism, and black is Kansas. We get it. And now you’re going to get it, too: lock, stock, and two smoking barrels.
After all, your guy McCain would rather lose an election than lose a war. He’d rather lose an election than see the economy collapse. And he’d rather lose an election that not be loved by his erstwhile friends in the media. After all, if he loses in November, he’s still a senator from Arizona. He’s still got his wife, his kids, his 47 houses. And, when he loses, he’ll have his friends again. Us.
Joe Lieberman will be clerking nights at the Bridgeport 7-Eleven, Lindsey Graham will become a Democrat, and Sarah Palin will be working for Planned Parenthood, but the Maverick will be the Maverick once more. He’s finally going to get his wish and lose an election. Better that than never be invited on Meet the Press again.
We always knew the Revolution would come. We just didn’t think it would come this soon, or this easily.
– David Kahane is not a real person. Nevertheless, he plays one in Hollywood, where nobody notices. You can invite him for tea, conversation, idle chitchat, praise or opprobrium at [email protected]. Just don’t invite him to dinner with Griffin Mill or Tim Robbins.