Thursday, September 04, 2008

No Convention For Old Men

The music and visuals at the Democratic Convention make the Republican look like a junior high pageant in Nampa, Idaho. (Which it very well may be)

You've got All Tomorrow's Miss Americas and Richie Rich The Eighth's with Popsicle sticks up thier asses, flouncing about to social studies textbook CD ROM soundtracks, cut from red white and blue construction paper. Generous sprinklings of young, Black, Hispanic tokens, like cheap semiotic fertilizer they picked up at the Karl Rove Walmart, next to the viagra, Rogaine, and economy-size Miracle Grow, "Perfect for men with more lawns than they can keep track of." Red dots of Blackwater rifles painting the backs of their skulls as they read the teleprompter for dear life.

Cut to the audience and you see an almost unilateral sea of old, pinkish-white faces and thin white hair. The Old Guard coughing up dust like they've just been dragged out of their glass cases in the Smithsonian, polished, put on display. The shaking hands of their PTSD sons saluting as they relive their "patriotic" past. Lockheed-Martin and Haliburton lining the front seats, discussing new "policies" to "help get America's economy back on its feet", grabbing each others' wives' tight young Stepford asses. Then, as a memoir of Katrina ravages Louisiana, a hot night of pink boas, hookers and blow, partying like it's 1984.

Yeah, go fuck yourselves silly.


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