Jimmy Tripps

The Devil and the DLC

The pigfuckers are at it again. I watch them as the blood seethes through my temples and my eyes mist over with red rage. I watch their spines liquefying and oozing from every available orifice. You can see it in their faces. Those faces- ruined by the excesses of lobbyist lunches and failed, broken inertia. Look closely, you can see the tattered remains of their souls peering helplessly out of their moist, dead eyes. Some horrible Lovecraftian beast from a million years past has latched itself onto their collective brainpans. It huddles there, hungry and sinister. Look closely, dear reader. Do you see its dagger toothed grin? It has tasted the cerebro-spinal fluid of the modern American Democrat, and it likes what it tastes.

I wonder sometimes why the Democrats bother showing up. They do little enough to bring balance to politics in Washington. They slump low in their seats, wallowing in their own impotence. They have come to know fear. They have tasted its copper tang. They've forgotten what life was like without that puke in their mouths. Never before have I seen a group of grown men so attatched to the idea of failure. I'm Irish, I know well the heady allure of the lost cause. Yet, I cannot fathom the sense of going out of your way to become one. Not like the Democrats have.

Across the aisle, their mortal enemy stands firm, gloating. They are led by a creature named Karl Rove. Rove is not human. You doubt me, because you have not taken the time to look. He proudly wears the doughy face we easily recognize as that of the quiet man who lives down the street- the one with the immaculate lawn. The one who never married, who lived with his mother his whole life. The one who engenders rumors of homosexuality- barely spoken, only whispered, but universally recognized. But beneath that mask is the leathery hide of a lizard creature. Colored contacts mask the cold, yellow eyes that stare out at the world with a glare of pure evil. Pure greed. Deep in a compound beneath the Washington Monument is his lair. Row upon row of bodies lie in artificially induced comas. They lie waiting for him to come. And feed. He likes the babies the best- their warm flesh still tender and succulent. His hunger is insatiable. He will spend hours down there- choosing the tastiest morsels. And as the newborn blood drips down his scaly chin, he stares upward, peering through the layers of concrete and dirt and sod. And an inhuman howl of pure lust issues forth from his bloodied lips. And he lays in wait for the coming of the dawn, and another chance to humiliate his enemies.

Perhaps someday, a hero will come. Like something from mythology- a Democrat willing to stand up and lead the charge. A titan, breaking loose the shackles of the DLC and stepping proudly to the senate floor. On that day, perhaps, his brethren shall actually stand up for something. They shall find their spines solidifying yet again. They shall feel the warmth of the long dormant sun upon their pasty cheeks. And that day, that day dear readers, the creature called Rove shall be driven back into the pits from which he emerged. That day, the milquetoast demons shall find the flavor of Democrat fluids has become decidedly sour.

Perhaps that day, we shall have government again.

posted by Jimmy Tripps @ 7:03 PM