The exact extent of the uselessosity exhibited by Democrats right now is breathtaking in its magnitude.
Shattered. Splattered. Scattered. Battered. Tattered. Skewered and plattered. Barely mattered. That was the Democrats after November’s election. But surely in the months since, they’d come together to stand aligned in the face of the flaky imperiousness of our so-called President. You’d think. And ripe bananas make a fine masonry grout.
The Democrats have lost their direction so completely they need a compass to wipe their butts. Incontestably, incontrovertibly and incredibly… useless. We are not speaking of a trifling of uselessness here. “Totally and utterly and unconditionally useless” barely scratches the surface. The exact extent of the uselessosity exhibited by Democrats right now is breathtaking in its magnitude. Mythic. Destined to be immortalized in song and dance.
During last year’s campaign they skirted the periphery of worthless and ineffectual and futile and just plain lame, but the degree of uselessness they have recently achieved is best measured in AUs, astronomical units. As evidenced by their reaction to Donald J. Trump’s first unstable weeks in office. Or lack of reaction. They make listless look downright rigid. Limp is their rock.
As useless as an ejection seat in a helicopter. Mudflaps on a turtle. Pistol range in a bouncy house. Costume designer on a porn flick. Solar powered night scopes. An ashtray on a Harley. Glass piñatas. Triangular wheels.
Oh sure, they strut and pose and squawk and stamp their little impotent feet but so far have accomplished nothing. Less than nothing. Negative nothing if that’s even a thing. And no, you’re right, it isn’t.
Our new President celebrates Black History Month by comparing himself to MLK. Goes to a National Prayer Breakfast and asks the assembled to pray for Arnold Schwarzenegger’s ratings on the television show he produces. Picks a fight with Australia. Australia for crum’s sakes. Home of the Koala Bear. We’re about to go to war with Koala Bears. Come on, America, that’s not who we are. Tasmanian Devils maybe.
Falling back into their familiar role as punching bag in an abusive relationship, the Democrats’ squeaks of protest can’t be heard over the sound of the body blows being absorbed. Instead of trading punches, the left responds with splenetic poems and pussycat hats. Going to change the world through rhyming couplets and creative crochet.
Nancy Pelosi displays a look of perpetual surprise but can’t bring herself to do anything but wag her finger and shake her head. Bernie Sanders? Zero. Zip. Nada. Nothing. He hasn’t even threatened to give the President a stern look. Okay, a sterner look.
Barack Obama has left the building. No, really. He’s gone fishing. In Chicago or Hawaii or Kenya or somewhere. Hillary Clinton is no help at all, she just keeps laughing. John Lewis and Elizabeth Warren are the only isolated voices in the wilderness, two lonely figures fighting on the balustrade trying to wave away swarms of raptors. Getting the same support from their compatriots as bulls get from squirrels.
Heads need to roll. Hurdles must be leapt, rivers portaged and careers sacrificed. Loins girded. Photos of administration members in flagrant delicto with livestock have got to go viral. It’s time for Democrats to kick off the Birkenstocks and strap on a pair of football cleats. Lose the mandolin music and download some Led Zeppelin. Once more unto the breach, dear friends. Snarling.
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