GOP Soup with Uncle's Ham

"Unca DSL., while you were in the kitchen the other night softening fish heads for your big three-man man-date, I thought I overheard you finally make your quadrennial presidential endorsement, but unlike with the heads, I didn't catch it in final, sound, bite form. Could you run it by me again so I and my mom and the man who currently steams her carpet know who not to vote for? I turned eighteen when you started your second and hopefully last half-century with a gout-inducing bender, and want to do what's right by my current and your long since ex- country."

"Why, sure, Becky (returning to kitchen) - just pull up a chair and sit on it like this (buries face in hands), and Uncle will explain everything he can before your mother arrives with my thirty-pack and my "generic meds" from that "Indian pharmacy" I have shipped to her P.O. Box after my bust - I trust she's told you about "my trouble", as Benny Hill once said in declining to act in a strenuous commercial threatening to risk what was left of his (runs to turn down burner) ..."

"Anyway, as Garry Wills pointed out the other day, when you vote for a president, you're not voting just, or even, heh, primarily, for a given candidate, you're really also voting for a huge (electorally-dysfunctional) family - the interest groups, lobbyists, sliced-and-diced constituencies, and an institutionally-permanent spoils-hunting shadow bureaucracy and "brains" trust, not to mention the delegates and voters for the fallen rival candidates, all of whom, in return for burying the hatchet from the primaries somewhere other than in the formerly-sought-just-two-months-ago split skull of the eventual victor and tendering, viciously, their general-election support, will expect and demand everything from Supreme Court appointments, e.g. perhaps as many as Three More Wise Men and/or Even Wiser Latinas ready to bear the gifts of their supra-Solomonic-expialadocious wisdom unto the biblically-foretold World's First Trillionaire, to ambassadorships to Mars for the space-jockey tech billionaires and M&Ms for their kids who plaster Club for Growth stickers on their height charts and high chairs."
 
"So let's look at the template for American Greatness Conservatism pre-saged and then post-dumbed us by the gang we all came to know and root beers and Gingr Ailes for over the past fifty years of the current GOP-Cam pain."

"There's former-Senator Santor Klaus, whose people are indeed said to be both red and white as well as fond of men in white beards, and who will do their very best to make the others comfortable in a tropic island nest to make sure we all, after the example of jolly old St. Nick himself, come once a year and once only, depending upon how naughty or otherwise we were during the preceding 364 months give or receive. They will also attempt to make as much of the world under their, heh, dominion, as possible resemble nothing so much as your blazing Yuletide hearth ripped large, thus ensuring that, although some lucky few among us will think themselves called, none among us shall ever again be cold, or indeed, at current rates of global carbon belching, with memories of the Bad Old Days of what we used to like to call Room Temperature before EdSec Ten-Gallon Tex (below, Sweetie) freed his state's Textbook Commissioners to revise the title of Webster's for Children to Western's for the Chilluns and its entry for 'room' to 'see: sauna'."

"Then there's Cranky Gramps, whose colors are not so much, pace Santor above, red and white as gold and white, thanks to the impressively tight-arsed paleolibertarians and monetary cranks liberators with whom he used to hang blacks in drooling effigy twenty years ago. I say that, of course, only in tribute, as I myself have many hung blacks in my mind's eye most days, and not just when I'm putting my dress socks out on the line. And in the time-honored throw-the-bums-out fashion by which Pea the Wheeple hold these superstitions to be self-parody, Crusty Gramps, along with his well-groomed and diabolical, cackling lab-cultured son, would, thanks to his dogmatic attachment - in spots, at any rate - to the laissez-faire fetish, do his utmost to ensure that those plutocrats presently holding our political order captive by the short-hairs would die richly-deserved deaths the better that they might be replaced in shorter order still by a race of fresh plutocrats even more impressively ruthless, the better to vanquish any pesky remnants of democracy - those meddling kids! - still writhing with the dead rats on the kitchen floor of America."

"We'll skip over Mitternich at White Knight, who so loved dogs He wanted them to see America even closer up than as a Vietnam-era missionary he saw, if not London, at least magic French underpants, for another knight anything but white."

"Pepperoni Pete offers us much, as well, especially to the extent that our new Tex-booked copies ofWestern's (above) revise 'us' to 'see: white women', for whom his promised '12 inches in 30 minutes or less for $9.99', though wholly three dollars and thirty-three cents pricier than the '$6.66 Special' promised the Santory faithful above, does after all come with more toppings for the bottom, not excepting those never requested in the first place but tossed off and then a split-second later on on tha house. And one of you lucky ladies, perhaps even you, Becky, can expect an ambassadorship to Uz-becky-becky-becky-stan within seconds of your putting the tiny round white plastic three-legged coffee table dripping orange grease in the dishwasher."

"Ten-Gallon Tex has had a most imposing pedigree to renew, ever since we learned during last decade's 2922 Days of Miracles and Wonder that Lone Star governors always make the best presidents. But given the justified pride he takes in the record number of, heh, "executive" orders by which he has done his subdermal hypodermic best to keep the otherwise-swelling above-ground Texas population in check, he not only shows that his red Dubya colors don't run, he shows that he is every bit as fit to execute the even darker death-dealing foreign-policy deals demanded of a prospective CEO of CBO, Worldwide, as were and are the three most recent Executioners-in-Chief from whom it takes its flesh-smoking acridnym. I trust you know our new national slogan by which we take our proud place as next banana republic among nations: As Goes Texas, So Goes What's Left of the World Not Ripped Out Its Lungs By Crony Capitalism."

"And so to Minnesota Mom, who will always hold a special place in my heart right next to my left ventricle (why, aorta...), if for no other reason than, as the Littlest Candidate Who Could when in a group shot with the half-dozen rivals otherwise her equal in stature of all sorts not susceptible to the ice-bitten rigors of the Stanley Tape Measure Cup playoffs, she long ago won the Cuteness Award my free hand down. Since she claims to have switched from Carter Democrat to GOP UFO after collegiate ingestion of Gore Vidal, perhaps in the wee hours of a near-beer kegger in the back of a van filled with roving (if not either Roving or RVing) Young Naderites, thus converting one man's third-party acid to another's first-party base, she will do wonders among the marginally more literate Romneyite cupholders drinking her patronage punch in spreading the hermeneutic (no, not after the Real Name of Pepperoni Pete, above) doctrines of the deconstructionists, for whom all texts are indeterminate, self-subverting Frankenstein's monsters over whose meanings their authors have no privileged claims whatever."

"For The Pervessor, though, I feel the warmest affliction affection of all, as a fellow academic historian by graduate training, although with the former(Speaker)'s dissertational expertise lying within the field of educational policy in the 19th-century Belgian Congo under King Leopold, who treated his unfortunate charges as his private property, I must defer to him on all occasions on which he chooses to lecture the drum-beating, bass-blasting natives of our colonies inner cities on escaping those forms of poverty not inhering in the sort of superhuman patriotism in whose service he found himself working so tirelessly throughout all forty years (1995-1999) of his Mid-Clinton Speakership with no thought whatever for his own monogamous safety. And with his assertion that no mosques should be erected in lower Manhattan until Christians are allowed to worship freely in Saudi Arabia, The Pervessor showed a tender, Niagara-eyed, 21-Kleenex solicitude for not just what's left of good old Amerkun constitutionalism, and not just the Federalist Future of the Godless Brown Ones With Our Oil, but above all for his brave and selfless fight against those just squintily-viewable pockets of lingering demagogy and bigotry lurking round the edges of his otherwise party of truest of true Christians and patriots, every one of whom deserves, by next order of Congress at the latest, to be rolled in malleable gold from head to foot, and polished until they blind the cosmos. Anything less would be almost Kenyan. I realize, Sweetie, that one of your uncles, the one who keeps a 'blog' if that's the right word, recently lampooned, locally if not nationally, The Pervessor as "a fat-fuck fascist", which is not at all nice not just to lipids of most sorts, to sexual intercourse in all its divers postures, and to the faggot-bundling, fire-kindling heirs and assigns of the late and still-great if thoroughly-defeated-in-life Benited One, but above all to The Pervessor himself, whose historian's long penchant (he keeps it suspended from his neck, along with the souvenir Congolese incisors) for juicy counterfactual speculations bids us just try to imagine, handkerchiefs for brows at the ready, a world in which rather than receiving routine Sunday-show deference he and all his noble breed were one day all but smashed, mopped up and shoved off the fucking face of the earth; why, just sketching such a future, as a yellow-lit cautionary civics lesson for my beloved and well-ripened niece with the ... (turns other burner down) er, I projectile-shit great Everests of fear for the beloved fatherland just thinking about it ... "

"UNC! LANGUAGE!"

"I know, Sweetie - your Uncle still has flashbacks to those gawdawful days when he used to vote habitually - emphasis on the B-word - for the Other party - Emphasis on 'Other' With a ... Capitol ... O Since 2008.™"

"But thanks to Santor, Gramps, Mitternich, Pepperoni Pete, Ten-Gallon Tex, Minnesota Mom and The Pervessor, that won't be necessary for a long, long time, maybe ever. Just pull the ... right lever every four years, knowing that each time you do you're making not just 'Murka but the hole of the world sicksafe for Big-D Dickocracy for a love-you long time of come."

"Oh, and one last thing - tell your mother if you'd have just knocked first, I'd have closed all of those browser windows, leaving only the My Little Pony screen saver; never mind, she's back - here, help me dolly this leftover vat of your Uncle DSL.'s homemade GOP soup - as a peas offering."

"What - no fish heads, Unc?"

"Nope - no bones about it, soft or otherwise!"

"Except for - Uncle's ham bones."

"Hahahahaha."

"Hohohohoho."

Brought to you, as always, by the Church of DSL. of Lahti-Dave Scotts, who remind you this election season that when you see a car in front of you with one of those holier-than-thou "message" bumper stickers, leave a few extra car lengths between you, assuming running it off the nearest cliff and then running on foot with your dedicated tin of glovebox Jiffy Pop unto the slow-motion end-over-end fireball finale cannot be effected in time: It's Not Just Good Fun - It's WOMJWD (What One Man's Jesus Would Do)™.