Opinion » Bill Cope

Resolute

A preview of how mean I can be

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As you might know, the conservative Brain is kept at an undisclosed location somewhere south of Cincinnati, deep below the surface in a lead-lined bunker, ensuring that no fresh ideas, progressive values, or authentic morality can ever corrupt its purity of purpose. From what I can gather, it bobs about in a huge, clear Plexiglas vat filled with an aerated soup of saline solution, essential nutrients and just a pinch of formaldehyde to keep it from smelling--picture a bull's testicle floating in a Mason jar in your old high school biology classroom ... only the Brain still lives--and from its every mushy lobe and gelatinous fold, high-speed fiber optics cables run directly to the red-state guard of rightwing strategists, consultants, bloggers and pundits, spreading instantly the manifesto du jour throughout the faithful. It's a marvel of bio-chemical-electrical-political engineering, truly. As soon as the Brain thinks something, George Will says it. So does Robert Novak, Cal Thomas, Tucker Carlson, Hannity ... the entire communications division of the conglomerate. They each translate it into their own words, of course, but there is never a question of not being on the same page. No sir-ee. To this crowd, herding instinct is a virtue.

Since the election, the Brain has been sending out a constant and steady statement on how the opposition should behave in our defeat, and the spokespeople on the other end of the wires are dutifully repeating the message as gospel. Simply put, it goes something like: "If you Democrats don't stop acting like you're smarter than us, you will never again be allowed into the temple of national leadership."

In other words, fellow Democrats, if we don't start treating the union's ignorant, the fanatically superstitious, the proudly stupid and the profoundly inept with the respect they feel they are due, then the yokel-ocracy will never let us play in their barn again.

Piddle! Do what you think is best, fellow Democrats, but as for me, I don't take advice from Republicans. It's not like they have our best interests at heart, after all. And even if we did win a few more elections out in the Bumpkin Belt, we'd still have a chin to shave, eyeliner to apply, teeth to floss, or any number of reasons we couldn't indefinitely avoid facing ourselves in the mirror.

So, compadres, rather than prostrating myself before this alleged moral superiority of 1/5th of America's population that boasts of having achieved a mandate, I intend to spend much of the new year examining in detail that vaunted rectitude of theirs, peeling back the skin of each separate component and exposing it for what it is: being equal only to its own weight in horseshit.

Actually, shortly before the old year ended, I had already begun this dissection of the different manifestations of their sanctimony with one opinion on why the God they've come up with isn't fit for polite society, and another on how those small towns of which they're so proud are often little more than collections of outdoor junk. As you can imagine, I raised some hackles. But if you don't want your hackles raised, stick to Dee Sarton.

Today, I offer a sampling of more topics I intend to cover in 2005, and every one of those topics, it is my sense, is another piece of the puzzling self-righteousness of people who by all rights should be ashamed of themselves.

• We must take a closer look at the motives of state leaders who accept munificent gifts from powerful billionaires ... i.e., a governor's mansion atop a commanding hill. Good Lord, aren't these poobahs already deep enough into one another's pockets?

• Scrapbooking. Pee-yew! Lady, you may think it's art, but all you're really doing is making a mess your children will have to clean up after you die.

• Football! Ugh! The Broncos! Ugh! Where to start? For instance, how can so many of my neighbors pretend that a handful of imported athletes playing relatively well in some over-hyped children's game somehow makes them special by virtue of their proximity to the mediocre university those for which those athletes perform? On a related matter: how can a local daily elevate a community college's football program to front-page headlines status for months on end, and still dare to call itself a newspaper? (And just so I don't upset the Blue Turf Bozos any more than I already have, let's save what I think of Coach Hawkins' pay package for the off-season, when they're all asleep.)

• Attention! When your fatherland is waging a hollow war for hollow reasons, you cram so many "Support Our Troops" stickers on your rig that the rest of us can't tell whether it's a Suburban or an Expedition, and all it amounts to is a hollow gesture born of hollow patriotism.

• Admittedly, it's a personal irritant of mine that matters little in the larger scheme of things, but darn it, if I don't tell white church choirs who try to sound hip and jazzy that they're only embarrassing themselves, who will?

• Cell phone piggies, I'm putting you on notice. Barring your vacuous chatter from airplanes and moving vehicles isn't nearly enough in my estimation. I won't be satisfied until the only legal time you can publicly irritate the crap out of everyone around you is when you're on death's doorstep. Or when your water has broken, maybe. And even then, keep it down!

• As to those conservative students bitching about how liberal their instructors are, I'm planning a column on what a false issue it is on several levels. First of all, that's not "liberalism" you're hearing, Tweedledum ... it's knowledge. Secondly, don't sweat it; being conservatives, you probably won't make it to graduation anyway. And lastly, if you don't like it, go start your own college... tech school ... remedial reading program ... whatever.

Oh dear, there's so much more. "Christian" archeology--now there's a couple of century's worth of delousing, right there. And charter schools and singing cowboys and happy soldiers and the purported sanctity of marriage and golfers and ... and ... Egads! So many things to dis and so few Wednesdays in the year to do it.

But let's face it, no matter how nasty and vindictive I get--or you, too, fellow Democrats--towards those poor, benighted reds and their fatuous pursuits, we'll only be chewing around the edges. Hacking at the ganglia that dangle from its fetid, central bulk, that's about all we can do. At least until we find a way directly to the Brain.

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