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.