Warning: Adult (and extremely immature) Content.
I’m somewhere in the mountains in the west of Portugal at a health spa. There are extended families everywhere looking virtuous after their appointment with the hotel nutritionist and a cleansing dip in the healing waters.
I am celebrating by sneaking outside for a smoke and drinking as much red wine as I can.
Given my drunken state, I don’t remember who to blame for referring me to the torrent of pompous guff that is Bill Fucking Kristol’s most recent article in the Weekly Standard.
To the Republicans of the states of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida:
I imagine Bill, as he types with one hand, slowly drawing aside his robe to reveal his wrinkled old todger. It stirs vaguely as he spits on his other hand and gives it a quick buff.
At this moment of great peril for our nation, you have the privilege of beginning the process of selecting the 2012 Republican presidential nominee—the individual who will save us from the ghastly prospect of an Obama second term, and who will then have the task of beginning to put right our listing ship of state, setting our nation on a course to restored solvency, reinvigorated liberty, and renewed greatness.
His excitement is rising now at the thought of the usurper being thrown out, of that glorious day when he can again call a spade a spade. He is half hard, with perhaps a first glistening drop of precome to moisten things up.
Your responsibility is great. Your votes will affect which candidates survive January’s electoral gauntlet, their likelihood of ultimately prevailing, and even whether others will feel impelled to enter the race. You, the voters of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida, will shape the range of choices for your fellow citizens elsewhere in the nation in this crucial year.
How should you decide for whom to vote?
Now his mind turns to the candidates and his hand begins to quiver up and down those few inches. He thinks of Michele Bachmann and her crazy-sexy eyes; of that delicious hunk of manhood that is Rick Santorum, and of his oh-so-perfect helmet hair; of Gnoot’s quivering jowls and Rick Perry’s firm and masculine chest; even (perhaps for a moment) of sweaty forbidden gnome-sex with Ron Paul.
Vote for the person you think would be the best president of the United States. Ignore the proclamations of the pundits, the sophistries of the strategists, and the calculations of the handicappers. Ignore the ads, the robocalls, and the polls. Be skeptical of those who would seek, whether from national stage or local perch, cavalierly or presumptively to instruct you how to mark your ballot. That ballot is yours alone to cast.
Here the people rule. So you, the Republicans of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida, can step back, consider the individual candidates in the totality of their public lives, study their records and platforms, judge their abilities and views, imagine each of them in the Oval Office making major decisions for the nation . . . and choose the individual who you think should be our next president.
His hand is a blur. His eyes are glazed. The keyboard is a little sticky. The moment is near – the moment to drop in mention of the Federalist Papers – and then surely he will have the sweet release he craves.
As Hamilton puts it in Federalist #1:
The subject speaks its own importance; comprehending in its consequences nothing less than . . . the safety and welfare of the [Union], the fate of an empire in many respects the most interesting in the world. It has been frequently remarked that it seems to have been reserved to the people of this country, by their conduct and example, to decide the important question, whether societies of men are really capable or not of establishing good government from reflection and choice, or whether they are forever destined to depend for their political constitutions on accident and force. If there be any truth in the remark, the crisis at which we are arrived may with propriety be regarded as the era in which that decision is to be made; and a wrong election of the part we shall act may, in this view, deserve to be considered as the general misfortune of mankind.
And his heart is going like mad and yes he says yes I will Yes.
The crisis of 2012 isn’t the crisis of 1787. But it is still a crisis. It is not a moment to be swayed by capricious accident or compelled by political force to a wrong election of the part we shall act. It is a moment for reflection and choice.
A moment of doubt. Little Bill wilts slightly, and Bill fwaps harder to try to keep the buzz. He calls up image after image in his mind, but now the doubt has taken hold and all he can see is Rick Perry saying “oops”, Herman Cain suspending his campaign, Ron Paul denouncing Israel, Gnoot saying anything at all, and Romney, always Romney.
And it is a moment, as you prepare to cast your vote, for others to reflect on whether they don’t owe it to their country to step forward. As this is no time for voters to choose fecklessly, it is no time for leaders to duck responsibility. Those who have stood aside—and who now may have concluded, as they may not have when they announced their original decision, that the current field is lacking—will surely hear the words of Thomas Paine echoing down the centuries: “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.” Now is not a time for leaders to engage in clever calculations of the odds of success, or to succumb to concerns about how they will look if they enter the fray and fall short.
Oh god. Oh god. Not even Thomas Paine can save his hard-on now. Sadness washes over him. His tackle has shrunk down to a limp noodle which he clutches between his fingers. He milks it desperately, but the joy has gone. Will no one bring the light of hope back to Bill’s eyes, the flush of blood to Bill’s loins?
Now is a time to come to the aid of our country.
No. No one will come, least of all little Billy Kristol, as we leave him, curled on the carpet, clawing at his groin, with not even a little spurt of semen to soothe the dry, dry and futile friction, or to fill the yawning crevasse of despair that has opened up inside.