Friday, March 11, 2005

A shell to form long left

In a way, I pity the American Republican voter - for he appears to have painted himself into a corner.

I say he, for online discussion with the republican voter would tend to indicate that he is almost exclusively male - as he so often likes to remind me, or more tellingly himself.

Apparently women of their ilk are scarce. Perhaps there are no women republican voters at all. Or perhaps the female republican voter is busy holding the household together while the republican male lounges about in online forum with other republican men, retrieving masculinity.

Either way, I pity them all. For they have sold their souls. The republican voter is doomed to forever agree with his dear leader, so completely has his soul been sold. And though his party may sacrifice human rights to it's ever decreasingly larger cause, and though his party may burnish the lumpen complexion of democracy infested beneath the cuff of white collar crime, and though his party may reward the diligently blinkered with platitudes and chilling gel eye blind folds, the republican voter can never protest. For the republican voter has flushed dissent away with reason.

Oh yes, I pity him.

And so it is that I from my outpost rejoice in my own imaginings. For I am free, unfettered by the constraints of party dogma. Free to commiserate with the impartial rogue and discuss the shortfallings of complicity with the compassionate left. Complicity and it's price. Ah, but the poor miserable republican is only on the precipice of learning these things. And so I feel compassion, for the poor self-censored valet.

And I rejoice in my despair. For I am free in my despair where others are bound to vote and vote and vote again for the predetermined ghouls of their own mares, all the while with a grimace plastered to their faces "I am good" says the grimace "enjoy" the grimace seems to remind itself through gritted teeth and clenched jaw. "Enjoy" as though the word had almost lost meaning, a shell to form long left.

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