(2 pm. – promoted by ek hornbeck)
Fear not, wanderers in this WTF Wilderness. Be not dismayed, let not your hearts be troubled. Lift up your eyes like you never have before, and behold the shiny objects flashing around the White House and the DNC. Look upon them in wonder and sing hallelujah, for salvation is at hand. Again.
I hope Obama and the clap louder crowd at Kos Communications will forgive me, but I’m not fired up. I’m not ready to go. The idiocy on full display every hour of every day on the campaign trail exposes how far gone this country’s political system is. We don’t see any real political debate, we don’t hear any real political commentary, there’s no dialogue about the fundamental problems we’re facing, no real solutions are offered. It’s not a campaign. It’s a beer commercial.
Tastes Great! Less Filling!
Corporate capitalism tastes great. No, it’s less filling. Gosh, I just can’t decide who’s right, it has so many appealing features. It’s not perfect yet, but perfection is so close the Beltway binge-drinkers can almost taste it.
Their friends at the five-hundred billion dollar Beltway Brewery are really cranking out the suds, the bipartisan beer trucks are rumbling down the highways of America, driven by austerity alcoholics with places to go and people to see.
It’s Happy Hour, it’s always Happy Hour here at the Trickle Down Tavern, so drink up everyone, order another round, put another trillion dollars in the jukebox. Yeah, I know, Too Big To Fail is the only song on it, but what the hell, get over it, quit pouting and grow up, be a patriotic patriot and praise the plutocrats, they created this paradise of prosperity and are disappointed because we haven’t been grateful enough, so grab a beer-soaked flag and wave it on high.
Wave it on high for Eric Holder, the head bartender. He used to be a prosecutor, but now he just pours drinks for bankers and lights their smokes for them. Wave it on high for Hillary, dealing blackjack in the corner with Espionage Act cards, wave it on high for Leon Panetta at the pull tab jars, there’s a defense cut ticket in there somewhere, wave it on high for this guy . . .
Yeah, the banker smoke is pretty think in there, but if you cough your way through it and get up close enough, you can see Obama’s way more liberal than Harding, Coolidge, and Hoover were, so STFU, professional leftists. You’re never satisfied!
Well, at least they gave us a free speech zone down in the basement. Sometimes they even turn the lights on. Not too many people can hear us singing way down here, but we’re going to keep singing anyway, singing for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail, singing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight, singing for the refugees on their unarmed road of flight, singing for each and every underdog blogger in the night . . .
Sing it for the rebel, sing it for the raked,
Sing it for the luckless, the abandoned and forsaked.
Sing it for the the outcasts, burning constantly at stake,
Until we see the chimes of freedom flashing.