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Monday, February 11, 2008

Twilight Of The Gasbags.

I'm not predicting the AM radio bloviators are done. Limbaugh and company aren't going anywhere. Boomers are aging, and a good percentage of the males are certain to turn into grumpy cranks, the natural audience of the reactionary right broadcasters. I am predicting larger audiences and more money in the wingers' pockets. It's all about entertainment and reinforcement of prejudices. The Twilight of the gasbags refers to the public opera  that we are watching. Like all entertainment there is shorthand that allows the directors and actors to move the plot along. If you see a guy in a TV drama with squinting eyes, tattoos, a shaved head and short goatee, we're looking at a villain. No need to take time to explain his biography. In romantic opera the eighteenth century audiences understood that if the Queen put on an ornate shepherdess costume, nobody would recognize her. Mozart didn't have to tell people that her lover wasn't a total retard when he couldn't see who she was. The opera that is opening on Amplitude Modulated electromagnetic wave emanations will be filled with the cultural short hand of the right that many folks don't understand. 
First a few definitions: Border fence = No Mexicans, Crime = Put all the "N-word boys" in jail,   Push one for English = No Mexicans,  Socialized medicine = medical care everywhere else,  English only = No Mexicans, Tax cuts = no taxes for me, 
Regulation =  you can just breathe that smog.  McCain = Traitor,  Democrat Party = traitors,  Liberal Republicans = traitors, Elites = anyone I don't like.

The Opera "Twilight of the Gasbags" opens with the procession to the Republican convention across wasted farmlands and emptied cities by auto-flagellating  conservatives The wailing of Ann Coulter can be heard above the clank of the chain whips shredding the backs of the delegates. From his throne overlooking the procession the Great Rush glowers and mutters to his sycophants  that he has washed his hands of this impure party, wandered so far from the dogma of the Holy Ronald.
The party marches into sure doom, and the losses are legion. The Republican Congressman and Senators have been driven into the wilderness. The beast Hillbama rules from the house of white and slowly begins to pry the accumulated wealth of the long pampered overlords from their claws and apply it to the long neglected national needs.

In the second act King Rush has set up a gripeocracy in the radio waves belonging to the American people, and attracts millions of listeners to his daily regurgitation of resentments. The Handlers of Snake cultists have withdrawn to their megachurches and their priests live on in luxury. The few guerrilla libertarians found camps in the jungle and dream of perfection. The Republican Party no longer exists, and the Whigs are re-established.

In the last act King Rush, slowly dying of AIDS caught on sex tourism excursions to the Dominican Republic and oxycontin poisoning, bathes in dittos from his adoring fans and cash from his advertisers. His eighth wife, curiously named Anne Boleyn, has him carried to his seventy foot yacht to be burned at sea. The police inform her that she should have waited until he was actually dead, and the insurance company probably wouldn't cover the boat because she, you know, set fire to it. Millions of true believers mourn and pray for the return of Reagan.  Bitterness and anger reign.

I'm enjoying the show so far.

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