O FEMA, Where Art Thou?

Thanks to buhdydharma for telling me of this safe port!

FEMA, your name is not mud, because I would not disgrace the life-giving dirt of our nation with your trials and odyssey of incompetence. I no longer know your true name, for it is unspeakable here in the Crescent City, but where art thou?

Didn’t the blind leading the blind foretell your inactions today in Iowa? Didn’t the drowning of the oracles of Voudon not tell you of what sitting on idle hands can bring? Are you seeking treasure, a leader, or both, to come save those whose charge you are meant to keep?

I beg of you FEMA, where art thou?

Did not the baptism of the Big Easy prove that meetings about meetings on how to respond will lead to a baptism of the people by fire, even though water fills the wards? Surely you understand that the fields along the Mississippi are renewed by the river, while the people are not? It is not the Ganges, though you always make it one.

What ministral who sold his soul to the devil plys his trade in your ears and keeps you from your duties? Are the hounds of hell needed to force you to do your jobs?

FEMA, where art thou?

I dare say we have long lost our favor for your Soggy Bottom blues, and if you wish to play fiddle again while the Mississippi rages, I wish to box your tin ears. Have the sirens of Norquist lulled you to sleep so you cannot act, in his mad dream to drown the republic in a bathtub? What false prophet is keeping you from your appointed rounds?

FEMA, where art thou?

The people of the Mississippi are in constant sorrow at your inability to show up when the republic needs you most. How many valleys must be flooded to show how your hanging back cannot be pardoned?

Do not stand there like Lotus-Eaters, glassy eyed in disbelief of the destruction at hand. The rivers in the heartland are made of many turns, we need a tactician who will not fall asleep during these greatest perils.

FEMA, WHERE ART THOU?