Jackets to Straighten
by Scott Parkinson
It is just about a month before the next general election and the forces of evil have mustered, I can smell them on the wind. That dog-whistle call, which only the weasel-hearted can hear, has blown, and its beckoning isn't to be denied. Every pond has been relieved of its scum, every urban-bowel has loosened to let out its filth, madhouses stand empty, whorehouses vacant, and cesspools have lost their guardian trolls, all to fill the ranks of the next geek-stampede.
Another presidential election has been ripping into the delicate sensibilities of the American people yet again, and I fear for us all. Their brutal campaigns of terror have been exploding out of every newspaper, magazine, radio, television and minister's mouth, creeping like a vile ichor into our every waking thought. The jack-hammer lies, imbedding evil half-truths deep within our psyches, will unhinge even the most sound of us and make us fear for ourselves, our children, our neighbors, and our nation. We will be deranged and paranoid, again, before this latest episode in American Politics is complete.
I have only recently recovered from my last bout with America's filthiest. The horror of the daily barrage that came seeping out of the different camps was mind-numbing. A three-way free-for-all between Bush, Clinton, and Perot brought the insanity to levels that its has rarely seen. Bush, from deep within a pool of shiny-slick scum that he secretes naturally from his mouth, used death and mayhem as his big stick to knock the political ball around. Clinton, an oily shadow where a man should have been, fielded the balls of hate, and is his good ol' boy way put a happy spin on each of them. Perot, Disney's escaped dwarf, Gripey, ran a rubber-jawed commentary on the entire freak show without ever once offering a solution. The sound bites, picture moments, barbed jabs, angry fists full of hot mud, and the rabid dog fight in the final waning days of the '92 campaign, left me dazed and shaken. The frenzy built until the very morning of the election which found me as I lay on the ground, eyes staring blankly into space, my mouth opening and closing like some nightmarish fish, my body quivering feverishly, and my anus shuttering spasmodically, down for the count; one more wretched victim of mass-media politics.
I just don't think I can face another political season, especially with Gripey involved again, at least not without a little help. I'm not strong enough anymore. I'm afraid that I will turn down the road that so many before me have already cruised, the Apathy Superhighway. Apathy isn't a path for the lazy, it is a haven for the weary. People tired of having to try to sort out what is, what isn't, what is it, and where does it really stand. The demonically spun world of the mass-media politician warps the reality of any normal person who stands looking at it for too long. There are no real world signposts within the realm of politics to give direction and guidance to the confused. Once you enter, you're on your own, baby, and Lord help you, because nothing is as it seems in Blunderland. This is truly an unattractive dilemma--madness or apathy.
It is the sickening feeling that nothing we hear can be trusted, that builds with each passing day of the campaign season, until we, and they, are all gibbering fools by the end. Straight facts and straight answers would go a long way to ease the stress that the elections seem to generate, but we can't expect the politicians to do this. That would be like expecting fish to give up the water and start living in trees. Remember, once rotten, meat never sweetens again. So, my fellow brethren of the electorate, it is up to us to straighten the crooked, or at least put something next to them so as to gain an idea of just how twisted they really are. It is time to identify the insanity and stop it.
We've got to jacket the deranged, truss them up tight and never let them roam unrestricted again. They feed on uncertainty and confusion. Their silken-tongues curl around deception, embracing it like a maggot does filth, only to retch it out tainted with the weight of importance and authority. We must wrap them in truth and never allow them to go anywhere free of it, for without this, we are lost.
I say clothe them in the threads of their own weavings. Make bright yellow jackets with the names and logos of all their contributors woven in black thread upon these garish blazers. Stark and ugly, let their strings become obvious. Let us see how the marionette has strung himself up, and then bring on the song and dance.
The rich, corporate gravy, the diet upon which the politician has fed his petty desires and ambitions, will be spelled out across his jacket in big, obvious splatters. Everyone looking at the man while he talks will see the mad cluster of stains from his many meals at the corporate trough. The words can spew out in torrents of double-talk and innuendo, his dinner jacket will tell another tale. His apparent love for the environment will have to reconcile itself with the LumberWhore logo upon his lapel. We will have a black and yellow anchor to steady the ship of sanity in the volatile seas of politics.
Remember, this will not be an easy chore, so be prepared. At every turn, the forces of politics will try to stop this from happening. Their hell-spawned cunning will realize the threat that honesty poses to their existence and they will run, but after them we must charge. Screaming, crying, begging for release is how each one shall react to their jacketing, but it is for our peace of mind that we must do this, not theirs. The bitter job has to be done, for by doing it we finally force the politicians to live by the concept that they abhor--you can't keep dancing to everybody's tune when your feet are nailed where they stand.
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