You are here: Home / Archives for Will Durst

Is Romney’s the Worst Campaign Ever?

September 24, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Photo illustration courtesy of Donkey Hotey

It’s time to start worrying about Mitt Romney. Seriously. The guy may just be running the worst campaign ever. And yes, that includes the McDLT, print ads for organic hemp underwear and France in ’39. Not to mention McCain/Palin in ’08. Which currently holds the gold standard for lousy campaigns. Sure to be a Hall of Fame inductee in a couple years.

Willard has taken bad to a whole new level. Bad like a dumpster behind a fish market during a garbage strike bad. Bad like a three-dollar Dark Knight Rises DVD bought off a Times Square cardboard table with Albanian subtitles bad. Bad like Todd Akin at a NARAL benefit bad. Bad doubled down. Beyond breaking bad to the point of broken bad.

And every time the former Governor of Massachusetts opens his mouth, it gets worse. He’s tone deaf, tongue tied, logically challenged and as approachable as a near-sighted porcupine in heat. The Anti Ray Romano — Nobody Loves Mitt.

So uncomfortable around real people, you can practically hear him whisper “icky, icky, icky,” under his breath while shaking hands at rallies. You know there’s an aide with a bottle of hand sanitizer waiting for him on the bus. Maybe even a 55-gallon drum connected to a shower head.

Got caught on a secret video calling 47 percent of those real people moochers and malingerers. Shirking, entitled victims dependent on the government for food. Food. Mmmm. That’s us. Just can’t get enough of that government cheese. You know what this country needs? A good five-cent government cracker.

The impression is that, 1: he was pandering to his rich donor buddies or, 2: the poster child for the 1 percent really believes what he said. Either way — awkward! And that massive pounding sound you hear is a herd of stampeding elephants running away from what they fear might be contagious.

Said he wouldn’t concern himself with that 47 percent, which depresses his most ardent supporters, because “Hell, that’s more than half!” One major problem with insulting 47 percent of the American public is that at least 58 percent of them worry that you think they’re part of that 47 percent, and you know 112 percent of America believes that. They do. Bet you $10,000.

The video’s release obscured the Romney campaign‘s much-ballyhooed new design to sharpen its message. Would have been interesting to see how many truckloads of flint they were going to use to try and put an edge on that much smoke. Honing fog.

His own staffer warned us. The Etch-a-Sketch has been turned upside down. Prepare to be shaken. Problem is, you keep rebooting something as stiff as Mitt and it starts short-circuiting all over the place. Romney 8.0. Better than Romney 7.0. Now with Desperation.

Maybe it’s the extra-large silver spoon in his mouth that keeps him from seeing the view from the middle class. Can’t understand why they don’t pull themselves up by the bootstraps like he did when his daddy loaned him his first million.

With the debates still to come, there’s time to turn this race around. But this far in, it’s like turning the Titanic. After hitting the iceberg. And the helm is underwater. Face it, if Bain Capital were running Mitt’s campaign right now, they’d close it down, fire him and hire some Chinese guy to do it better and cheaper.

Five-time Emmy nominee Will Durst has a new e-book: “Elect to Laugh!” published by Hyperink. Available at redroom.com or amazon.  Photo illustration courtesy of the very talented Donkey Hotey.

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,

The Stealth Convention

September 3, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Bryan Frank

And now a few words about the Republican National Convention. AKA: Women with Big Hair and the Men in White Shoes Who Love Them. And white certainly was the operative word in Tampa. Mashed potatoes on paper plates with a side of leeks white.

Had to feel bad for the one black guy the networks kept cutting to during the speeches. They tried everything to make him look like a crowd. Different camera angles. Probably had his own wardrobe assistant. “Now put on the cowboy hat. Okay. Okay. Let’s try a handlebar mustache.” Must have been someone’s driver.

The first day of this GOP quadrennial confab got canceled for the second consecutive conference due to a hurricane bearing down on the city of New Orleans. The only two tropical storms to threaten the Crescent City since Katrina. Hey, guys, want some crow sprinkles on that karma cone?

But any worry about the optics of unrestrained celebration while parts of the country drowned faded fairly quickly. “Oh, quit your belly aching. At least your pesky drought is over.” And with that, the convention shifted into stealth mode.

The festive conservatives were so successful at concealing their core convictions, that at times it was difficult to discern which party was nominating whom. “We’re saving Medicare.” “The Party of Diversity.” “Our Platform May Say No Abortions, No Exceptions, But We Haven’t Even Read It.” “Dubyah Who?” “Mitt What?”

The only speaker to mention Mitt’s name out loud on purpose was Ann Romney in a gracious and endearing turn. Facing the tall task of climbing the plateau of humanizing her spousal cyborg, this mother of five boys constructed an entire flight of stairs by herself. But with a husband stiffer than Rick Santorum on a gay pride parade float, it was the basement stairwell of what needs to be skyscraper scaffolding. Baby steps.

Paul Ryan growled the requisite Veep Nominee pit-bull snarl. Then gave 40 minutes worth of credence to the Romney pollster who proclaimed earlier in the week, “We’re not going to let our campaign be dictated by fact-checkers.” The Janesville Congressman trotted out more bad lies than Employees Day at St. Andrews. The Old Course.

Chris Christie solidly wedged himself into a fail-safe slot for the next round in the event of a Romney/ Ryan November stumble. As did Condoleezza Rice, albeit more elegantly. But Marco Rubio stole the show, positioning himself as a possible impediment to Christie and Condi’s scramble for 2016′s money. If there is any money by then.

Normally these gatherings are to spontaneity what Richard Simmons is to mule skinning. Lots of shiny, smooth seamless spandex. A three-day holiday in a hall full of Ken dolls. But in a dubious celebrity stretch, some soon-to-be ex-staffer woke Clint Eastwood from a nap to upstage the nominee’s acceptance speech by losing an argument with an empty chair.

Following Dirty Harry speaking to an imaginary president, Romney spoke of his phantom agenda. The general consensus was he needed to give the “Speech of His Life,” and the good news is, he did. The bad news: that was it. Great for the base. “Meh” for everybody else.

So now it’s on to Charlotte where the Democrats will throw a counter spin to their mirror image of this carefully orchestrated boogie-down. Charlotte and Tampa in the dead of summer. And these are our great political minds at work? Something indeed is horribly awry.

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Bain of His Electoral Existence

July 21, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Ken Teegardin / iStockphoto

You might say it was a turbulent week for Mitt Romney. You could also say a light lemon sugar wash makes for ineffective mosquito repellent. He claims to have totally left Bain Capital to run the 2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics even though his company handed the government multiple signed documents stating otherwise, and now financial questions plague his campaign like a swarm of dive-bombing bees in a bathroom stall.

The presumptive GOP nominee finds himself in the uncomfortable position of having to convince skeptical voters someone can serve as a firm’s president, chairman of the board, chief executive officer, sole stockholder, junior janitor and cafeteria server in a plastic hairnet and still have absolutely nothing to do with the direction of the company or anything that’s going on. You might say he’s invoking a modified Wall Street bankers’ defense.

It boils down to whether he played any active role after leaving in 1999 and his subsequent retroactive retirement. Whatever that means. He says no, dividends be damned. And all those SEC filings listing him as boss were simply corporate publicity moves, like Donald Trump putting his name on various hotels and statuesque fashion models. Which many psychologists define as an edifice complex.

Adding to the confusion, in 2002, Willard successfully disputed tax records listing him as an inhabitant of Utah because he was required to have seven years of residency in Massachusetts for gubernatorial eligibility. Then again, who would quarrel with having a president who could live in two places at the same time?

Also, during the period in question, Romney sat on the board of a corporation called LifeLike, which co-incidentally seems to be his campaign slogan. But we’re pretty sure they had nothing to do with his construction. They make dolls, not puppets.

The reason this is all so important is because Romney declares his qualifications stem from his recognized business acumen. And if it’s proven he either lied under oath or to the American people, it would go a long way toward establishing he truly does deserve national office.

Romney maintains he is totally within the law not releasing any more tax records than required. Yeah, well, in certain states gambling and prostitution and foie gras are within the law as well. Is this guy running for the presidency or trying to avoid the constabulary?

The former governor from Massachusetts rationalizes he’s only following in Teresa Heinz‘s ’04 footsteps. But Teresa Heinz wasn’t running for president. Her husband, John Kerry, was, and he released 20 years of taxes. So, maybe Romney is subliminally letting us know the post he’s really angling for is… first lady.

Speaking of which, presumptuous presumptive Marie Antoinette understudy, Ann Romney, addressed the subject with, “We’ve given all you people need to know.” Wow. Now, we’re “you people.” Might be taking that Mormon Royalty thing a bit too far. Fortunately, her husband was able to refrain from using the term when addressing the NAACP.

Come on, Mitt. This is the biggest of all poker games and it’s time to go all-in. Like the police always tell us when they start ramping up surveillance. “The innocent have nothing to fear.” You’re squeaky clean innocent, aren’t you? Or is this just another example of that age old Golden Rule: “He who has the gold, makes the rules.”

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , ,

Plenty of G-20… and Sangria

June 23, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Jeremy Brooks

And now, your report from the front lines of the G-20 summit recently concluded in Los Cabos, Mexico. And the good news is… no knife fights. Very little broken furniture; and for the very first time in recent memory, the proceedings were judged to be more boring than watching varnish harden, which is considered a huge coup for the host country. So, Viva Mexico!

The G-20 meets once a year and is made up of 15 or 16 of the top 20 countries with the largest economies in the world, excluding Norway, the Netherlands, Spain and a couple others, but including the European Union and some other countries with special ties to the organizers. You know, like in high school. If you help decorate Prom, you know who’s compiling the guest list.

Of course, Spain is allowed to crash the festivities every year even though they’re not actually members. Like the quarterback who gets suspended for the food fight in the cafeteria, everybody loves Spain and will sneak them through the back door of the party. Besides, they always bring the Sangria. And come on: they’re Spain!

An important thing to remember is the huge, intractable distinctions between competing governmental conventions. The G-20 has absolutely nothing to do with the G-8, which is made up of eight of the world’s top 10 economies excluding China and Brazil. And once in a while, the European Union wanders by, but that’s about it. Don’t even think of letting Spain in. We have our own Sangria, thank you very much. And we call it gin.

Like the G-20, the G-8 also meets once a year and was originally known as the G-6 and then G-7. So it would not take that great of a leap to put a couple of Euros down on another eventual name change to G-9. G-Double Digits, right around the corner.

And, as everybody knows, the G-20 replaced the G-33, which itself superceded the G-22, leading to speculation that the G-8 and the G-20 will someday merge and produce a mutant love child to be known as the GG-28, which will meet twice a year and hopefully be as boring as Day Three of hospital pudding.

This was the seventh meeting of the G-20, and the politics involved were breathtaking in a stupendously vapid way. Then nothing happened. And for nothing to happen on a global scale, with markets around the world as precarious as a glass sculpture above a nuclear test site located on an earthquake fault in a sandstorm, is exactly what everyone was praying for.

An official declaration recognized that agreements may very well be forthcoming but not until a framework can be forged to accommodate international justifications to absolve interested parties of any blame and/or responsibility. And Greece and Spain were never mentioned by name. But we all know who they are.

Internally, it was heartily agreed that decisive action will definitely be required. Someday. By someone. But not now. And definitely not by anybody here. Then Asia and Latin America quietly bailed out Europe, and nobody commented on the ignominy of it all, and they all retired to the big balcony overlooking the sea to dance and smoke and drink Sangria.

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,

Summer Day One 2012

May 31, 2012 By 1 Comment

Photo courtesy of Trina Alexander

Disregard the almanac. And the calendar. Forget whatever the meteorologist or the astrology charts or your next-door neighbor with the hair growing out of a mole shaped like the state of Delaware on his nose told you. The true wormhole opening to summer is not the upcoming solstice on Wednesday, June 20th; it is, has been, and forever shall be the last Monday of May — Memorial Day.

Memorial Day: when the world alters unalterably for every kid and teacher and parent and water-park operator across the land. By now, the cages have either sprung open or the locks are being picked, and the imprinted DNA of every true-blooded American tingles in anticipation of the ten-to-twelve weeks of school-free adventures looming ahead like a sun-kissed valley below a fog-enshrouded summit. Even those of us who don’t get to stop and romp in the valley are able to recall extended days when we did, and can’t help but grin wistfully.

Officially, the last Monday of May was carved out as a peaceful respite to lay a wreath at the tomb of all the young men and women who sacrificed their lives for the security of our nation, not to mention the multitude of valiant drivers tragically lost in Midwestern automobile races.

Unofficially, it’s the time for the whole of America to stop in the headlong momentum of the year to lean on a freshly painted picnic table and catch our collective breath.

Summer? Seriously? Already? How the hell did that happen? Wasn’t it just the other day we were taking down our Xmas cards? Of course some of us still have our Xmas cards up. And exactly what is wrong with that?

Most importantly, Memorial Day marks the beginning of the flesh-charring season. Our own, at the beach, eating al fresco for the first time all year and on the freshly scrubbed grill — those many brave, sluggish mammals who gave their lives in order for us to raise our cholesterol levels to heights where Sherpas fear to tread. Thank the pig.

Now is the time for fireworks and lemonade and tires swinging on ropes over rivers and roasted marshmallows and ice cream on sticks that melt down your hand all the way to the elbow. And golf and hiking and roasted corn and suntan lotion and thunderstorms and baseball broadcasts on an AM radio and spending a week in the middle of August jammed in the back of a station wagon with no air conditioning, an 18-year-old incontinent basset hound and a leaking Coleman cooler.

Some people even claim to find camping relaxing. Good for you. To me, the outdoors is where the car is. Roughing it means cable TV without Turner Classic Movies. You say Wilderness: I think spotty cell phone coverage.

Our season of frenzied leisure is too shortly destined to end on Labor Day, so hurry on out there and have one terrific summer full of long, languid days and soft, warm, breezy nights. Go frolic and cavort and gambol and caper in a madcap series of wacky, zany antics that you remember fondly. Always. And try to keep the sand off your hot dog. If you know what I mean. Gentlemen: Start your Webers.

The New York Times says Emmy-nominated comedian and writer Will Durst “is quite possibly the best political satirist working in the country today.” Will Durst’s book, “The All-American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing,” is available from Amazon and better bookstores all over this great land of ours.

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

And Lukewarm Was His Name-O

May 18, 2012 By 1 Comment

Photo courtesy of Gage Skidmore

You don’t need a psychoanalyst to detect the latent theme running through the endorsements currently showering Mitt Romney like broken rain gutters pouring down on a concrete toadstool. And that premise is ennui. “Mitt? Really? Yeah. Okay. Whatever.” Makes tepid sound like a crazed bellow. With wild enthusiasm as MIA as World Series trophies in the Wrigley Field display case. Within the last 104 years, that is.

Someone should warn NASA because we are approaching stratospheric heights of apathy here. The only thing these highly solicited testimonials have accomplished is given a face to listless. The guy needs industrial-strength hip waders to slog through the thigh-high lethargy.

George W. Bush carved a precious three seconds out of his busy schedule to make a momentous announcement from the inside of an elevator telling an ABC news crew, “I’m for Mitt Romney” as the doors closed on him. Not that the candidate-in-waiting was particularly lusting after 44′s imprimatur, which some might call the Kiss of Campaign Death. But it effectively does nail down the eminently sought-after spoiled rich kid vote.

Rick Santorum got around to his ringing endorsement 13 paragraphs into a 16-paragraph email sent out to supporters after midnight. The only subterfuge he neglected to employ was to disguise it in semaphoric code. And these are Romney’s big-time Republican buddies. You’d think they were having their teeth pulled with families held at gunpoint on a listing catwalk yawning over an erupting caldera.

It’s been like that ever since the nominee became presumptive. Politicians oozing from the woodwork with the same kind of energetic frenzy fifth-grade school girls normally reserve for haggis-flavored ice cream studded with garlic pickle chips.

You got to know this is just the beginning of a series of sluggishly recalcitrant pledges of approbation. Here are some other passion-challenged tributes we can expect over the coming weeks.

“Mitt Romney. Had to go with somebody, right?”

“Not the brainwashed Romney. That was his dad.”

“Only two of Mitt Romney’s five sons think he’s a soulless Cyborg.”

“May be out of touch with the mainstream but looks pretty good tanning on the embankment.”

“Mitt Romney. Hey, it could be worse.”

“Not the kind of guy who would hold you down and cut your hair, unless you really were asking for it.”

“Pretty down to earth for someone building a 57-room mansion with a car elevator.”

“Will do for America what he did for Bain Capital.”

“Survived the mean streets of Bloomfield Hills.”

“Hardly ever sneaks out at night to kick homeless guys. Anymore.”

“A man who stands by his previous statements, no matter what they are.”

“Mormons are just like Christians, aren’t they?”

“Mitt Romney. Not that bad, when you consider the alternatives.”

“He’s no John McCain.”

“Going to make the world safe for rich people.”

“Mitt Romney. When good things happen to bland people.”

“He’s Oxymormonic!”

“Hasn’t strapped a dog to the roof of his car in over 28 years.”

“Mitt Romney. He’s got gas money.”

“Never ridden a bus in his entire life.”

“Looks more like Gordon Gekko than Michael Douglas ever did.”

“Mitt Romney. A man who feels strongly about both sides of many issues.”

The New York Times says Emmy-nominated comedian and writer Will Durst “is quite possibly the best political satirist working in the country today.” Check out the website: willdurst.com to buy his book or find out about upcoming stand-up performances.

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

Evoluting Fabulously

May 16, 2012 By 1 Comment

Photo courtesy of Joshua Wanyama

A thousand rainbows of congratulations to Barack Obama for bursting out of his own personal policy closet and fabulously proclaiming he believes “same sex couples should be able to get married.” Sir! Welcome to the third year of the second decade of the 21st century, sir! You also might want to check out some of the strides we’ve been making in communications.

The president went on to explain he was slow in using his powers for good because it had taken a while for those thoughts to go Darwinian. Sadly, he stopped short of endorsing transmutation and neglected to hail Hugh Jackman as the best entertainer on the face of the PLANET!

What we witnessed was no eon eating, natural selection-type evolution; this native political animal spontaneously grew flippers and walked on dry land, prodded only by a nudge from the Biden fossil. Come to think of it, maybe flippers aren’t the only body parts BHO grew.

You might even call it a chrysalis, with a caterpillar emerging from its cautious cocoon to sprout wings and fly to a lonely position atop the moral high ground previously inhabited by such disparate denizens as Tammy Baldwin, Barney Frank and, unaccountably, Dick Cheney. Facing extinction.

As predictable as a brush-back pitch following a grand slam, Republicans began to howl from eight different vantages. One right-wing rag claimed he “Buckled” on the issue. Others called him the First Waffler. Might be difficult to hide Mitt Romney‘s 8000 waffles behind this big one of Obama’s, but they’ll give it the old prep-school try.

Besides, isn’t a waffle when you expediently move to a more popular position to curry votes? Meaning this swing- state polarizer is the exact opposite of a waffle. More of an elffaw. Which is waffle backwards. A polf- pilf. Or a yrrek.

Rush Limbaugh jumped into the fray accusing Obama of waging a “War on Marriage.” Everything’s a “War” with this guy. Bet he calls breakfast a War on Pancakes. Not to mention being a tad disingenuous coming from a multi- millionaire who hired Elton John to sing at his fourth wedding.

The president’s supporters worry he offended the black church-going community, one of his inviolate bases. But come on, really? Don’t you suspect he could be caught naked in a dumpster with a goat and a Portuguese seamstress and still carry the black church-going community? Just the goat? Male seamstress?

Opening a conspiratorial can of mutating worms, it has been suggested someone at The Washington Post leaked the Mitt Romney high school gay-pranking story and Obama knew he had to poop or get off the pot before it hit. Adding to Romney’s image problems: do we really want him tackling Belgium and cutting off its hair because he didn’t like the way it looked?

Michelle Obama’s husband disavowed any desire to legalize gay marriage on a federal level, maintaining it should be a states-rights issue. Of course, interracial marriage was illegal in 16 states until a Supreme Court decision in 1967 and some people still consider that an abomination. Guess who’s whining about this? Same marine invertebrates.

Fine. Let all gay people move to California. We’ll take ‘em. Then just try to get your hair cut in Mississippi. Or take ballet lessons in Montana. Or raise money in D.C. And that right there might be the origin of the species.

Check out willandwillie.com for the latest podcast. Will Durst’s book, “The All American Sport of Bipartisan Bashing,” is available from Amazon and better bookstores all over this great land of ours. Don’t forget to check out his rooftop comedy minutes at: http://www.rooftopcomedy.com/shows/BurstOfDurst.

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , ,

Madness in Mad Town

March 13, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Patrick Finnegan

Best be vigilant for an inadvertent head butt as the eyes of the world recoil from that crazed leader, besieged in his own capital, defying reality while obstinately holding onto a tenuous power and attacking his citizenry through a conflicted security force. Of course, I’m talking about Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker. Think a slightly less swarthy Midwestern version of Col. Gadhafi.

The locals call Madison “Mad Town,” and hardly has it ever lived up to that reputation as heartily as in the past month. Following the November sweep of both houses of the legislature, Walker, the Lexus Ranger, declared the Badger State’s deficit was due to those dastardly public unions, and his so-called “Budget Repair Bill” sought money from their pockets, an end to collective bargaining, placed obstacles in the way of continued accreditation, and advocated public spanking as a punishment.

This proposal came the very week after he ushered in $137 million in corporate tax cuts for the state, which is a lot like paying for your quarterly investors’ luncheon by garnishing the wages of the waiters. Money for the rich, from the middle class, again. Robin Hood’s evil twin must be exhausted.

Dashing rumors of an imminent compromise, Walker ran an end-around his state’s Democratic Senate exiles, ramming the bill through a tricky parliamentary procedure in a closed-door session, isolating the issues into non-fiscal elements. So, first it was all about the money, but then, about the money — not so much. Unless you count the big national bucks that lie in union busting.

Like a spreading alien virus, this Republican war on workers is waging and raging across the nation. Eleven states have pending legislation to strip unions of various rights. Indiana Democratic politicians joined their Wisconsin colleagues seeking political asylum in Illinois. Poor Illinois. Like they don’t have enough politicians sitting around doing nothing.

Wisconsin is the birthplace of the Progressive movement, with a long, proud history of activism. So, this naked power grab runs the risk of offending ordinary Wisconsinites like a New York cheddar winning the blue medal at the State Fair. And whose legality is more suspect than heroin in a holding cell.

More paranoid people might smell a conspiracy. Wealthy Wall Street bankers cause an economic meltdown, make obscene profits in the ensuing recession, then convince the populace that everything can simply be fixed through more tax cuts. So they can create jobs. Of course with $5-a-gallon gasoline, that two-way commute to China is going to be a bitch.

But if you think The Walker Coup means this issue is dead, you’ve obviously been spending too much time toasting the sunset while eating watercress sandwiches on the bridge of your yacht. As is their way, the GOP might once again have overreached and awakened a sleeping giant. Today, we are all Cheeseheads. Or as JFK might have said, “Ich bin ein kaasekopf.”

All heck is about to break loose. While sanctions and a no-fly zone may not be on the table, recalls, retribution and recriminations definitely are. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear the Pooh-Bahs in the upper echelon of the AFL- CIO decide to bestow Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker with its Organizer of the Year Award. Richy-Richly deserved.

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

Democracy is the New Black

March 5, 2011 By 1 Comment

Congratulations from the United States of America to all our freedom-loving brothers and sisters in Egypt and Yemen and Jordan and Oman and Tunisia and Libya and Iran and Bahrain and Morocco and Algeria — and maybe, someday soon, Saudi Arabia — for standing up to your dictatorial overlords and clutching at the guano-covered branches of freedom. Jolly good. You’ve made majority rule fashionable again. Democracy is now the new black.

We are all totally psyched how you’ve dragged yourselves kicking and screaming from the Dark Ages into the middle 19th century. You may be excited to hear about some other upgrades we’ve made in areas such as in transportation, communications and hygiene. It’s all there in your orientation packet. Watch some MTV. Ignore “Jersey Shore.” No, they’re not real.

We got to warn you, though, self-rule isn’t all a bed of roses. It has a thorny learning curve. Rubs tough on beginners. You might want to spend some time wading out towards the deep end wearing your feudal water wings before jumping straight into the parliamentary pool.

The thing is, don’t expect the world to change overnight. England’s has been dancing with democratization since 1265 and they’re still curtseying to the queen. Usually what happens is you lose one tyrannical despot only to gain another. You could avoid a particular mistake we made and find someone who can spell despot.

Elections are tricky things. Make sure it’s The People deciding the outcome and not nine old folks wearing black robes. Here’s a hint: If anybody gets 95 percent of the vote, reboot. You might be surprised to find the people most likely to run for political office often turn out to be criminally insane. Maybe you should pass a law restricting that. Kind of wish we had. Rule of thumb: Anybody who can be elected shouldn’t be.

Something else to keep in mind: Democracy for one means democracy for all. It’s a take-it-or-leave-it enterprise. All men are created equal. And women. None of this wife- walking-five-paces-behind her-husband-while-dressed-as-a-grieving-beekeeper stuff. Same with Sunnis and Shiites and Sasquatches. One person. One vote. Hey, we all put our robes on one leg at a time. Or two. Whatever.

Start small. Too many choices can result in inaction. An example: Sometimes you just want a package of sunflower seeds. You don’t want the Low-Sodium Dill Pickle flavor. But Safeway is all out of Original flavor because they allotted equal shelf space to the Low Sodium Dill Pickle flavor. Which nobody wants. They can have it, if they wanted. But they don’t. Well, same deal with liberty. So, there you are. Hope that clears that up.

All we’re trying to say is good luck with the whole democracy thing. Treat it like a new car, always driving as if 100 eggs are hatching inside of it at all times. Because they are. Bring it in for a tune-up every 10,000 miles and don’t forget to change the oil (shouldn’t be a problem). Remember to downshift headed uphill, it tends to veer to the left on the straightaways, and try not to crack it up because who knows, maybe we here in America might want to give it another test drive ourselves someday.

San Francisco-based political satirist Will Durst writes sometimes. Like this.

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Sleeves of a Vest

February 21, 2011 By 1 Comment

This is but a snapshot. A frozen moment in time, guaranteed to transmogrify on an hourly basis. So, knowing the situation is fluid, here’s your daily budget update and if I were you, I’d find a nice comfy chair to plop down into, because this promises to be more frustrating than translating Sanskrit into Japanese using Morse code smoke signals in the rain.

President Obama released HIS budget plan, which calls for tens of billions of dollars of program cuts mixed with tax increases. The Republicans countered with THEIR plan specifying nine figures of cuts only, and Ron Paul, well, he just wants to invade China, give them a proper thrashing and take all our money back. Meaning that although we’re less than two months deep into the 112th Congress, looks like business as usual.

Abstract-theory time is over now and actual programs are being singled out for devastation, decimation and elimination, and as we all know: One man’s pork is another man’s paycheck. But this is about symbolism, not jobs. Tea Partiers were promised $100 billion in cuts and they’re going to get $100 billion in cuts, even though Charlie Sheen has a better chance of being appointed St. Sebastian’s Girls School choir chaperone on a field trip to Vegas than the GOP proposal has of surviving a presidential veto.

Nevertheless, conservatives are cementing their ideological bona fides by rounding up the usual suspects and painting budgetary crosshairs on the faces of their mortal enemies: the EPA, AmeriCorps, Public Broadcasting, and Amtrak. The ugly little secret being — spending at the Pentagon will rise and no one need talk about Social Security or Medicare until experts have analyzed the polls on this present skirmish at least a gazilliondy times.

As expected, folks have taken to each other’s plan like a pod of giant squid to hot-air ballooning. Obama continues his tap dance down the middle. The Right whines he hasn’t cut deep enough and The Left pouts he’s gone too far. He compares the GOP strategy to a dieter who vows to lose 30 pounds, and does so by cutting off a leg. And the Repubs fire back he’s a girly man scared to make the tough decisions, who could provide better leadership by curling into a fetal position behind the couch licking the cat’s butt.

Congress has to pass a spending bill before March 4, or the entire government shuts down, which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for that whole roads and hospitals and customs and air-traffic controllers thing. Everyone agrees the gulf between the two combatants is wide but a new fiscal reality is here to stay and will affect education, security and agriculture, meaning more students per class, fewer cops on the streets and larger pieces of pig hoof in your wiener.

While the adversaries bristle and posture in public like male porcupines in pre-mating heat, Barack remains confident he can find common ground with the GOP leadership in private. Good Luck. Considering the smug intransigence of the Boehner Clan, that sounds like the political equivalent of pinning your hopes to escape a burning building on tying together the sleeves of a vest.

Will Durst is a very funny writer who often tells jokes to drunks in bars. Check him out at Zanies, Downtown Chicago, Feb. 22-27.

Enhanced by Zemanta
Filed Under: Will Durst Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
« Older Posts