Jeb On George

Jeb respects George because he hasn’t had an opinion  in four years.

“He is like the most focused, disciplined guy,” Bush said during the interview. “To imagine being a former president and not having an opinion on anything over the last four years, really? I mean, to have that discipline,” he continued, “to be respectful of the president that hasn’t been as respectful of him as he should have been? Man, I could have never done that.”

I am in awe over such discipline, such focus, such pristine, Chauncey Gardiner like vacuousness. It takes Zen-like concentration to maintain a completely empty mind.

 Have our standards really fallen so low, I ask, and a little voice in my head says, “Yes, yes that have!”

And what’s with all this nonsense about Obama being disrespectful? Look, I’ve got my disagreements with the guy, but he’s nothing if not scrupulously polite and gentlemanly. (I wish he would bloody his knuckles once in a while. We need FDR right now). How respectful was W towards Clinton? I swear to God, hypocrisy is a way of life with these people. It’s in the air they breath. But Jeb’s gotta start massaging the base, I suppose, and that means racist dog whistling.

I sometimes wish Obama was the militant black radical Kenyan socialist of right wing delusion. That’s a guy I could support with real verve and gusto. Hell, I’d volunteer to work on his campaign. He’s just not that way. I wouldn’t go as far as James Howard Kunstler, who refers to him as a “Millard Fillmore fake.”  That’s bit overly harsh, but he has been a sell out. I’ve just about had it with the happy sappy bipartisan shit. The Republicans are odious thugs and compromising with them is a foul and unclean thing. Every time I hear the term “grand bargain” a little piece of me dies. My kingdom for a principled, old-school Democrat!

I know Obama has to play this game. If he even so much as hints being uppity, all of the Beltway pantywaists will titter and hyperventilate, soil their hankies, and do something really crazy like ordering another triple espresso or something equally risqué.  Nobody will say it, but a single thought will reverberate throughout their collective unconscious: Angry Black Man.

My contempt for Beltway insiders is infinite, my friends. It knows no boundaries and accepts no limits. It is crystalline and pure, and it’s given me solace on many a lonely night. Am I being to hard on the chaps? Not at all. Read about one of their hang-outs. They are preening nincompoops just begging for the guillotine.

This is from the write-up about it in Politico, which is hardly a liberal rag:

“Order a cocktail at the Chevy Chase country-club and you’ll step back into ante-bellum Savannah,” one British reporter for The Telegraph observed last year. “The blacks wait on Wasps, showing all the deference expected of them. You won’t find many Cohens either, lounging on the well-kept lawn.”

There is an $80,000 initiation fee, but it’s only six grand a year after that. David Gregory and Brit Hume are members. So is Bob Schieffer. You know, the guys who gather every Sunday and convince the rest of us to accept austerity.

Incidentally, my standard for presidential mediocrity has always been Chester A. Arthur, not Millard Fillmore (hard to believe those two once giants strode upon the land). I think I had to write an essay about him in the sixth grade or something, but the only thing I can remember is that we share the same birthday. According to Wikipedia, a newspaper editorialized about his death by saying this: “No duty was neglected in his administration, and no adventurous project alarmed the nation.” That actually sounds refreshing, doesn’t it? No adventurous projects.