One Too Many
You may find this hard to believe, but I am through with politics.
Recently, I gorged myself at the trough of liberal websites, forums,
manifestos and blogged conspiracy theories until I was blue in the face. I
shoveled the sweet hope into my mind that revolution was afoot. I absorbed
all that cobalt electricity around the Scooter Libby / Carl Rove / Dick
Cheney investigation reveling in the Tom Delay arrest, excited from the
Harriet Miers flop. Like a capacitor in a camera before the flash, my whole
essence carried with it a barely audible high-pitched whine as the tension
In the closing days of October, I salivated for the political tide to turn
like the Aspens in Libby's not-so-cryptic note to his dear Judith. That
wonkish stupor took hold of me deeply...primally. I wanted the literal
skeletons in this "Administration's" closet to be outed like their symbolic
Halloween counterparts, emerging from the attics and dusty boxes for the
country's annual celebration of death.
Reality turned to delusion and Fitzgerald transmogrified from a special
investigator into a scythe carrying harbinger of the inevitable. "Reap,
reap, reap" I chanted. Things were getting out of hand. I had trouble
staying on task at work; my home life became a blue wasteland of
anti-administration hate mongering. Utterly obsessed even my dreams were
permeated by that icy rage. This was going to be the big one. I prayed for
those animals to be subjected to the ravages of a hurricane or three, an
insurgent uprising, manipulated intelligence, terrible flood, bankruptcy,
tornado, earthquake, etc. etc. etc. I became that which I so desperately
hate: a fanatic and I didn't give a damn. Bring 'em down from their ivory
tower so the masses can rip them apart and then leave the mangled bodies
propped up against the white house fence, limbs akimbo and leaking as a
brutal message to the next resident to always remember who they serve. I
was a vicious creature ready to slash, burn, kill and maim and when the
great moment came...
I blacked out.
Mrs. Marquis found me a few days later bloody knuckled and wondering in the streets
covered in blue paint, clothes ripped like Bruce Banner's after an
"episode". She scooped me up, took me home, unplugged all the TV's, and
computers, hid the cell phones, cancelled the newspaper delivery and kept me
locked in the bedroom while I fought the good fight against my addiction.
The hell that ensued took my mind to the precipice of madness.
In the aftermath of that event I regained my perspective and acknowledged my
mistakes. Though I still wish Bush & Co. to be annihilated alpha and omega
style, to hope for this to happen via the nuclear option is lunacy, or even
worse "republican". I hate these bastards, but my fantasy cure might be
worse than the disease. America is a resilient host to the cancer in
Washington, but above all costs I do not wish to see the nation weakened any
more. The good news is that it seems that perhaps the disease has reached
its zenith and that a slow recovery might ensue. My fever has broken but it
has cost me politics. I cannot and will not become that beast again.
So I hereby retire from politics.
I will still chat around the water cooler, grouse under my breath, and vote for the lesser of evils, but I will not become fanatical again. It's funny, but I think that this is what Dub
must have felt like as he accomplished the only real success of his life, the abandonment of alcohol. You're mad at yourself for letting things get out of hand and acquiesce to the solution, but you’re still fucking pissed you can't go back.
Dub's a dry drunk and now I'm a wet wonk.