They are the masters of mirth, the procurers of entertainment, the light show, the tinder box.  They are the answer to questions not asked, the question to answers not given.  They appear and disappear at will, the phantasms of dimension, the spines of the spineless.  They endure mightily as they are endurable.  They are smart and free thinking rotted plants.

The come to tell us that they are special, that they think, act, feel, maim.  They promise to promise.   They promise to spew.  They are too damned  base and too damned foolish.

Mean well.  Do well.  Be well.  Be of hard scrabble worth and  abundant luminescence.  Have voice, privilege, a mound of dirt and a pile of rubble  upon which to speak.  Represent.  They represent.  They are the strong special grifters who grift well with rocks and stones.  Ones of a kind.   Cream rising to the top.  The bats in the belfry.

Into nether world jobs they go.  Whistling and skipping and wailing and scheming,  swords of mighty justice they are.  The usual exchangeable parts who fit the slots and make noxious noise they are.  Hordes of independence, realism and thinkers, seers and lemmings swooning gracefully.   Good seering hacks can enjoy the laughter of achievement and ritual, attainment and lobotomy, speciousness and tripe.

Go along,  get along.  Be of the flow.  Offer steam and fall no more.  Great movements mean dead brains.  Why talk when nothing said means a damned thing.  All show all the time.  The virtue in the weak sisters and the hairy apes.  Do any of the rank prancers have the worth to be other than weak dittos?  Love all the damned candidates all the damned time.

Bloomberg Businessweek   Drake Bennett

The Hill   Erik Wasson

politics, news, commentary, analysis



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