Even Gibbon gnawed

Gibbon; also rumored to be a Biggun, if thee know what wee - or, rather, not-wee - mean
And so the lordly historian who, though he found himself somewhere up Darwin's tree among the higher primates was yet no Gibbon, commenced in the year of Twenty and Twelve to assay that riot of enthusiasms of the heart - he almost said mind - by which his countryfolk set the respective three of hundred plus ten of millions of sundials on their "smart" phones, the belief in Progress via such serial gimcracks perhaps the veriest umbrella covering all such faiths by which they advanced at breakneck broadband speed their own long cod-imperial Decline and Fall.

There were the wild-eyed Georgists of the Bush, with their belief in the Single Tax Cut - an application of what was earlier dubbed therefore Supply-Scythe Economics - on the ownership of the land, i.e., of the plutocratic political system, who held the imperial throne for eight recent years, and who also called themselves the Deciders, as it had in the Year of the Evaporated Why-Too-Que? been decided by a supreme tribunal of nine with a thin five-paddlegavel majority inclined toward the George-of-the-Bush party to install the Georgist-in-Chief after earlier interference by a southern judge known by the moniker, at first fearsome and then boyish, of Hanging Chad (for "Hanging Corey" had then yet to a-born).

There were the Hope Changers, who felt that the replacement of the Georgists of the Bush by a party topped by one of deeper tan and of contested birth might make a foreign policy predicated upon the torching to ash by twinkling satellite and buzzing dragonfly of inconvenient dots Human-unAmericans in countries no one could find on a map more genial to an electorate distracted by its chin flab when done with a cool-bro grin and in the name of Blue-State Brown-Faced Multicultural "Tolerance" rather than with a Greek-Row smirk and in the name of Red-State White-Faced Monocultural "Wholesomeness".

Descending from the empyrean mire of the accord civic to the primordial muck of the carnal in what sick-gray-faced journalists charmingly called "lifestyle", the fat gouty sausage-Hoovering historian smiled to behold the Vegan-Americans, disproportionately composed of Vaginal-Americans prone to divers other forms of often far more disordered eating, whose touching, and often enough shrieking, aversion toward the ingestion of striated muscle formed the paper-thinnest of guises by which to attempt, unsuccessfully, to divert the attention of the discerning from the V-As' ongoing policy of genocide toward America's far-and-away most persecuted minority, Chlorophyll-Americans, to the call of whose own verdant shrieks none to date have had a response, whether on Billboard chart or PSA to the heart.

Then there were those styling themselves, especially in Craigslist rental ads, "gay"-"friendly", discerned on sight by their willingness to lie down in front of moving bridal sedans if need be for the "right" to be joined at the community propertyship by that murderous institution called the state, so that they, too, might more smoothly assimilate themselves to a social order of a repressive psychosis yet to find its equal in all the annals of human history yet recorded in and respectively by the mother tongue and Father Time, whose licensed priestly class composed of superstitious "professionals" of the Therapeutic-Pharmacological Complex is, if anything, even more sickmakingly cloying in its cult of Niceness Through Compulsory Social Adjustment, Obedience and Pills than its predecessors from the decades when GM, the D.A.R., the FBI, the AFL-CIO, the RCC, the CCC, the (first) NRA, the AMA,  the ADA, the APA, CBS, NBC, ABC, the KKK and the Anti-Saloon League got to define who and what were nice as they dropped trou and took their turns seriatim in the forcible penetration of sphinctericus Americanus wherever and whenever even a single American with characterological grey matter might be discerned culpable of that most heinous of atrocities, Failing to Get With the Corporate/State Program, especially Today's more Forward-Looking one that of course replaces the Tired Old one that had all the licensed tongues wagging their brummagem hosannas as late as 11:59 pm Eastern the day after the day before yesterday.

Then, for he was a lustful historian with a libido above all for the soft and riotous caress of the slapstick, he cast his weary eye unto those most utopian of all the world-savers, the libertarians, whose Emmy-worthy* 

*Reserving the trophies of both the large screen and of what was once called the "legitimate" stage for those marginally more gifted at pulling off summer-stock farce

imitation of believers in the Redemption of Man by universal conversion to the "free" market was especially popular with several generations of postwar teenagers of all teen ages, for whom the sustained daily haunting of Pop's Malt Shop lasted, in some of the sadder cases, into decades when the wearing of lettered varsity sweaters into the retirement village fooled no one in its attempted disguising of a dementia that had already set in during years when the three-ring binders were in hands other than those of the Social Director with the flu-shot flyers.

Across the darkling plain just a not-to-scale map-inch or two from the libertarians, there were the "Objectiv"ists, who, though anything but Objective and, like all bearers of Good News for Modern Man in four colors and one dimension, wholly altruist from first to last however rattle-shakingly denied, helped ensure that the cod-Kennedyesque "dream (of jut-jawed and chiseled-if-easily-chipped Marxist inversion) shall never die."

There were the Sapphians or Sapphites or Sapphires, almost none of them blue in the face, at least literally,** 

**Q.v., see?, chapter earlier on the ranks of the "gay-friendly", and others inclined toward that becoming lightness of heart with which lurkers have long since learned to read - or else never again, to as much relief on the part of its author in the one case as in the other - the blog of the historian at effluent, flatulent issue 

whatever the glittering chromatic connotations, descended from a ancient race of poetic chick sexers and "puff divers" as they for their original penchant for jillknifing into schools of Aegean Tetraodontidae were called, and who today, when in coiled pairs*** 

***Or triads, &c. - there's plenty of room for everyone, we should with crossed fingers and clenched fist hope, keeping in mind, though, as on Bosnian wedding nights, it's first Serbed, first come, also known as festival seeding

on the silver, or at least cream, screen, set the eyes, among other parts better man-handed than described in an incestuous-family blog, to blazing, often for as long as two minutes at a stretch, speed in fast-forwarding permitting.

There were the Birthers, not to be confused with the Flat Earthers, which latter, at any rate, sometimes gave the appearance of having set optical foot inside a reference book not published by such "news" organs as WorldNetDaily.

There were the Pea Tardiers Tea Partiers, hoist by their own crumb-encrusted Tea Cosy TeaPard by the fact that millions of us, otherwise just as hot for the day-before-yesterday replacement of one clueless incumbent of any rank by another far more clueless still but at least different, just happen to find the old wheezing, powder-wigged give-it-a-rest-already painted-redskins-in-Boston-Harbor claptrap far less exhilarating in its foot-asleep tingle of brummagem patriotism at this point than the far more up-to-date mythos of dumping "Fair"-Trade coffee into Puget Sound.

Then there were the ...

But at just that moment, the historian's antique rococo doorbell with the c. 2012 Bangkok-sweatshop fleur-de-lys tolled, a sign from above****

****Or, rather, down below, as his "study", should thee call it thus without tripping in thy laughter over the pyramid, resembling a formation of the ten-pins, of emptied cylinders of the least dearly-bought among ales, was on the second floor 

that could in all its harking angelic heraldry mean but one thing: the pizza-boy and the foot-girl had arrived, bidding him put all thoughts of august, or at least may, historiography down the button marked "PUBLISH POST" the better to bring to dripping lascivious and cheese-melted fruit the previous one such, in an open-air feast fit for a disguised and gaseous king.