It's a black fly in your chardonnay

A rush of concern for manners and decorum from people who were apparently fine with Mitt Romney's lies and rudeness to the moderator in the first Presidential debate.

I don't know, irony doesn't seem like a strong enough word here.

I, Masochist

I can't stop peeking through my fingers at the carnage, the aftermath, the bruised and bloodied form of our society stretched out among the shards of glass on the side of the road. We could see the collision as it unfolded because history, that repetitious asshole, has shown us what happens when you concentrate wealth, gut regulation, and poke your tax code full of holes.

Americans from sea to shining sea want to know who is going to fix this mess? Answers come from all sides. We pick and choose that which suits us. A Chinese menu of solutions.

A young man on the right toys with his drink, places his order. Um, I'll have the tax cuts with more deregulation on the side. Oh, and hold the entitlements.

There they were on the television. Angry white people sneering into microphones. Angrier white people trying to hook up with each other made up the audience. The CPAC turned C-SPAN into one hellacious hate fest. Rage against the machine that is government, liberals, elites, taxes, regulation, teleprompters, pro-abortion atheists, Democrats, welfare queens, entitlements, poor people, lovers of European-style Socialism, practitioners of Chicago-style politics, Massachusetts, New York and California, the lamestream media, Occupiers, gun control freaks, homosexuals and people who refuse to learn English. Those haters of all things America. The blame America first crowd. The apologizers and appeasers.

There was no mention of drowning government bureaucrats in bathtubs, but there were lots of references to Obama. Please do take note. Obama. Not President Obama.

Grover Norquist wants to rule the world without taxes. Sarah Palin wants to deliver real Americans from progressive evil and into the welcoming arms of free market capitalism. Her mean mouth formed sharp words with which to stab at crony capitalism. Without the slightest hint of irony, her scorn for those who would use their political positions to gain wealth was palpable. You could see it coming off her in waves.

The crowd was hungry for this kind of lovin'. Cameras flashed. I held my hand to my forehead, was I flushed? Was this the equivalent of a good mental spanking? Would this scratch my itch, my need for a little punishment for my loose morals and liberal ideology? But that's redundant, isn't it?

I closed my eyes and soaked in their fury, marinated in the blood of their Christ who railed about sex and preached the gospel of prosperity. I could smell the green ink of the dollar bill. A vision of Ronald Reagan swaddled in red, white and blue bunting came to me as I moved closer to the television. I had to see the fire in their eyes, the exact curve of their lips where the spittle of righteousness gathered, their pores a thousand points of light, I'm sure, if only we had high def.

The crowd roared its approval. I drew back to see the big picture. Sarah Palin in her perfectly-fitted red suit body surfing the crowd, the young disciples passing her, smiling and waving, over their heads. A country singer crooned over the rapturous noise "She's not just a pretty face......."

I believe in the power of redemption

 An intervention may be in order.

I've gotten sucked into the cesspool of election year tomfoolery and non-stop coverage of what Tengrain calls the Goat Rodeo.

Evidence that it's a become a real problem:

1. My politics/media twitter feed is enormous and growing. It's a fine blend of snark, bawdy humor and info links that could keep me reading all the ding dong day.

2. While I wouldn't have recognized a quarter of the celebrities on the red carpet at the recent Golden Globe Awards, when I click twitpic links posted by political reporters, I recognize about half the people in the photos. I repeat political reporters.

3. I've been having erotic dreams about a three-way with Dylan Ratigan and Melissa Harris Perry.

4. I followed Jonathan Capehart aka Mr. Butters' vacation to the Virgin Islands via Facebook.
4.1 I know that Jonathan Capehart is also Mr. Butters and when he gets his haircut. And when he goes to McDonald's or not after his haircuts.

5. I can tell the following people apart:
Ari Melber / Ezra Klein / Sam Stein
Chuck Todd / That guy from the bookstore
Thomas A. Roberts / Peter Alexander
Luke Russert / Jeff Spicoli
Ron Allen / Ron Christie / Ron Mott
Gov. Rick Perry / Fmr. President George W. Bush
Mike Taibbi / Matt Taibbi
Chris Mathews / Lawrence O'Donnell
Fmr. Gov. Mitt Romney / Presidential Candidate Mitt Romney
David Gregory / A jar of paste
Chris Hayes / Rachel Maddow

6. Confession: In my weaker moments, I yearn to run my fingers through Howard Fineman's gray hair while talking music with Jon Heilman and drinking shots with Willie Geist.

7. I know more about NY Times columnist Charles Blow's daughter's fencing career than I know about what's going on with my parents. Of course, my parents could fix that if they got a computer and had Twitter accounts. Slackers.

8. While MathMan likes to impress me by being able to identify a piece of classical music within a few notes, i.e. Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 4, 5th movement, I like to turn him on with my ability to identify some pundit or other by their voice. It's awesome foreplay. "Oh, baby. You be Monica and I'll be Bill. Where's your blue dress?" It's so much fun resurrecting an old role-playing theme.

9. My little "problem" is affecting the kids. Sophie and I chat about the afternoon MSNBC personalities like they're family. "Did you see that exchange between Martin Bashir and that asshole from the South Carolina Republican Party?" I'll say to which Sophie will respond, "I almost threw my Cheez-its at the TV I was so disgusted so I changed the channel to iCarly. I know how angry you get when I make a mess in the living room."

We also worry about Mika Brzezenski's unresolved father issues because we can't help ourselves. We like her.

9.1 The cats and I are involved in a co-dependent relationship which now stretches beyond food. They insist I leave the TV on so they can watch Andrea Mitchell and speculate what it must be like to sleep with Alan Greenspan. They really have a mean streak, those cats.

10. And most disturbing of all, even though I've written about the many reasons for which I could never run for office, it's becoming increasingly clear with all the Republican hypocrisy shenanigans coming to light, I could indeed run for office as long as I'm willing to run as a Republican with a one hand on the Bible and a compelling redemption narrative.

I'm thinking there's really no downside here. I win and that's cool. I can be a public servant and support the policies I think will make this nation better for all of us. I lose and I can make some money on speaking fees. I mean $365,000 isn't a lot, but I could manage on that. Hell, one speaking gig at $40,000 would be twice as much as I made in 2011.

It's time for the Pussies for Peace and Income Equality (PfPIE) to get busy raising money for that Superpac. I just need to remind them not to put the money into investments in the Cayman Islands.