Time to Vote Folks

The financial poker game shuffles on.  If solid business was ever the goal, running with the cash and then standing in line at the public till for a handout is the American game.  If this is to be the global orgy, with a nod from the treasure chest and a daily goose under the skirts of the American public, what’s next?  Perhaps a body condom is in order. 

One can ponder, cliché, hoot, shake heads, banter, from pundits blather 6-10 PM and beyond about the rise ands fall, the daily erectile dysfunction screened to climax daily, complete with apologies for bad dreams and a stack of towels to wipe the sweat just off stage until the financial hussy spreads her legs again. Perhaps a body condom is in order. 

America is asleep at the wheel and the orchestra plays Rooms to Go.  These Boomers, and buffers, and clustered octogenarians to come (if possible) went to the circus years ago, watched the trapeze artists, the clowns, the elephants with butterfly wings on their ears, the man shot from the cannon and they had sooooo much fun and it stuck sooooo “fondly’ in their craws that by golly, by gee, they never, why they never really came home.

Oh how we dance on the nights when we’re “led” to the altars, the fox holes, the echoes in the mall, the silence between national drumbeat, so thin the music doesn’t even play. 

Roll the dice.  Deal.  The loan sharks are in the bedroom and they want all the action.  Its din din for Jesus and the cash, with a few million babies crying for the chance to run up a tab, giggle in the rocking arms they will eventually have to bear, or if chosen, sit on the Congressional flagpole waiting for the next job, the next hurricane, the foreclosure, the next shoe to drop from Uncle Sam’s never ending slog to corporate victory.

Shall We Dance?

The Republican Convention tap dances to the oncoming hurricane.  If Obama set off a week of slings and misses among the hooting News rivals, the Republican hyperbole and psychological innuendo makes one think they were all mad.  

On the one hand the cross of Republican whack and bomb pervads the networks with driller, killer VP, who eats up space.  But the theme from Picnic renders August froth.  One can hear James Cagney singing “That Grand Old Flag.  Now the pundits have their heads up every skirt, their eyes in every key hole.  Shout them down.  Eat them.  Now, they offer spaces between shouts.  Now they lean on the Republican high chairs wiping the chins, nudging them on.  Just a little more Jell-O is fine. 

One imagines pundits straining at the neck, tongues stretched, editors, proof readers, snitches, wannabes, surrounding Rodin’s, The Thinker, pushing, shoving, between laps and licks, in attempts at ideas, semblances of sanity, some itchy rhetoric they can call their own but alas, the wild-eyed swarm laps air, snarling and shouting down any fact that pops true. This redundant and misleading anthem for the sake of Ambian, Viagra, GM and Exxon, with a few Chinese plastic ducks tossed in will not stifle easily. 

After the Republican Convention, with few exceptions, the TV pundits,  meal tickets intact,  will resemble a Post 50s burp with a little heavy breathing along the network cable, etcetera perhaps just enough to keep wand waving, snickering and the possibility of political coitus on screen.