Buzz Windrop is a name that popped into my head while watching a bit of the news this morning, before letting the dog out back to ‘do his chores’ as my host and adoptive mother has it, because it is all republican all the time on the TV these days, and boy do the ‘Roy’s from Themthare’n’hill’s’ are good for ratings in Moron America, which means good for Advertisers, just not so good for the rest of us…The Metastacy has broken loose from the dainty chains of civility to reveal itself plain, in the open, for all of us to behold, for some to breathe deeply and face every new dawn with a smug little smile and a mental pat on the back and think “Finally!” And for others, and in this bunch I include myself, to wake again to what appears to be a fresh hell and attempt to deal with it best we can, each in our own way…For me, this morning I awoke thinking of the Sinclair Lewis classic “It can’t Happen Here” which inspired the title for this rant, and Senator Buzz Windrop which if memory serves seems like a template for the current situation in which we are moored…
This gag/dis-positive notion did carry with it a slight bonus…That I pulled all of that shit, unassisted, right out of my ass/brain this morning; the Title, the Character, and the Author, as well as a bit of the plot and its relevance to our current situation, which suggests that more of my memory is being recovered/indexed or my internal librarian has finally shaken off her long sleep and is back at the helm…So in a purely Yay fucking Me! way, this horrible realization does in fact come with that positive note.
So I don’t think we have done this yet, or if we have, forgive me, but I think it may be time to start a pool on when this Russian-hacked house of cards begins to crumble in such a way that even Tom Brokaw is forced to put on his depends and big boy suit and suggest that the man has gone too far…
I weep for the passing of Cronkite, Walter; Rather, Dan, and other class acts since passed or retired MEN of import, respect, and courage, who would be eviscerating this tin pot tiny handed terror on a nightly basis, and whose only fear would be the missile tests targeting their property (country places, of course.) Yet would keep up a drumbeat that would drive a Toddler-Id’ed entitled Moron with no discernible sense of propriety crazy, and eventually from office…
I saw a bit of an interview with Dubya the other night and found it fascinating how well he has aged and how sane he sounds and realized in horror that The presence of Trump has rehabilitated every last one of the Rat fucking assholes that brought him to us like one piece at a time to a laboratory in a bunker in Washington to assemble the president of their wildest imagination.
I almost feel like there was a bet to see who could in fact, break Hyperbole as a concept, or an effective humor delivery vehicle, and that the winning team submitting Trump to the panel after everybody had finished having a big old hearty laugh or three, the panel realized that these guys might be on to something and awarded them the prize, and here we are…
AndnowIwillfactcheckthisthing…Afterpublishingitfirst!