Infected Toe

WMAL in DC has a morning show hosted by two moderates named Brian and conservative goddess Mary Katherine Ham. She wasn’t there this morning, so the moderates waxed moderately on the unelectability of Rick Santorum who, gosh darn it, just can’t beat Baracula.

Oy.

What the moderii and the rest of the talking heads in Fortress DC don’t get is this: we are not in the middle of an election, we are in the middle of a Civil War. Oh, not a violent one, no Sherman’s March or Gettysburg or anything like that (yet), but one, just the same. This is a fight to the death, NOT an interesting election highlighting subtle differences in policy and political theory.

They don’t know that because all those pundits and pollsters and editors only talk to each other. Just each other. They all go to the same parties, read the same papers, watch the same shows. They do not talk to us, the real people of America. No time for that, you see. Busy.

But Schlub does. Schlub winds his way up and down the byways and alleys and cities of America and engages his fellow citizenry in discussion, and has discovered something very very in'ressin': all those moderates and independents over whom the pundii tremble are going to vote ABO (Anybody But Obama) in November.

So, yes, Mitt Romney is electable, but so is Rick Santorum.

So is an infected toe.

Might as well be Gossip Girl

Schlub is a big fan of the PBS series Downton Abbey. Yeah, yeah, PBS, bastion of Marxist culture, living on government largesse because they eschew the vulgarity of, ewww! commercials (Viking River Cruises notwithstanding). But sometimes they latch onto a pretty good British series and the Schlub will watch. After all, I’m paying for it.

And since Schlub is enamored of All Things Modernist, especially the last gasp of Victorian aristocracy just before World War 1, Abbey quickly became a favorite. At least, the first season, which was masterful.

But I think the producers of American Idol have snuck in the back, gassed all the writers, and replaced them with the staff of Dallas. Because this season has turned into a prime time soap opera.

Plot points abound: Lord Grantham kissing Jane, which you could see coming a mile away; Matthew’s miraculous recovery; Sir Richard turning into Snidely Whiplash; Livinia’s very convenient death by Spanish Flu (which the doctor treated like some nuisance common cold); Bates’ arrest for murder, also available for viewing several miles away…oh brother. Makes Schlub want to walk over to some random corner and throw up.

No doubt the writers intended a single season. Their target audience was familiar with the events of the early 20^th and knew Downton was going the way of Tara, so pass gently into that good night.  But unexpected popularity and a frenzied demand for more and the writers are sitting around the table bewildered, going “What do we do?” At that point, some guy in a checkered suit and loud tie bursts in shouting “I’ll tell ya what we do!”…and here we are.

To quote Hobson, “How revolting.”

Perspective

Let’s say you’re involved in a pretty gruesome accident, losing your arms and legs and one eye. After three years, some doctor attaches a hook so you can pick up a pencil.

Are you getting better?

Think of that next time some paid shill for the Democrat Party gushes about the economy.