The Republican Party

It’s as if the entire Republican Party has the hormones of a 13 year old boy. Testosterone is rushing hither and yon in his body. Everything is either uncontrollable giggles, an urge to punch something in the face while screaming like a banshee or funny feelings in his nether regions whenever Mrs. Cleaver puts on her apron.

Every day is an adventure in trying to keep from reacting to those feelings. Sometimes, though, the feelings win. And, off he goes. Meat cleaver in hand. Elmer Fudd hunting hat firmly pulled down around the ears.

Get the rabbit

Get the rabbit

Other days, the feelings just make him want to be with folks like him. Others that smell of sweat and armpits and anxiety and fear. Others waiting for someone to tell him what his place in the world is. He doesn’t know.

Woolworth Lunch CounterHe runs to join his tribe whenever something new or strange or different happens. His tribe is good. The other is not in his tribe. Therefore, the other is not good. The other must be stopped before they do something. Something that will lead to something new or strange or different. Something that causes change. Change is scary. Change is inevitable. Change is bad.

Blame the other. Always blame the other.

Grow up.


  • Eliot

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