Q. Why is the GOP like a Baskin-Robbins franchise?
A. Because they’re both suckers for the flavor of the week.
Scientists have yet to uncover what causes Republicans to recoil from their own candidates like a tomboy from frilly underwear. Perhaps they’re commitment phobic. Or channeling the Christmas morning four year old in all of us, ignoring gifts already opened, only interested in the next package stacked in the pile. Maybe they need to switch to decaf.

It could have something to do with the party’s penchant for treating its stars like mushrooms, relegated to the shadows and fed a steady diet of compost, so when they do emerge into the light, the media glare reveals warts the size of Buicks previously indiscernible. That darn HD TV.

The newest fresh faced front-runner in the little contest the GOP likes to call, “Anybody But Romney” is a rare Republican scoop of non-vanilla, Herman Cain. That’s right. An African American is leading the Party of Lincoln’s Presidential polls and no, we’re not sure if frost warnings have been posted in hell yet but gloves and parkas are on the way.

Yes, we know the jokes. The term “Black Republican” is like saying guaranteed pension. Saudi Arabian delicatessen. KKK Diversity Scholarship. Dick Cheney’s Drum Circle Retreat. The Barack Obama Dynamic Leadership Seminar. You could hold the GOP Black Caucus convention in a phone booth.

Well, they don’t make phone booths anymore and the former CEO of Godfather Pizza is currently captivating crowds and being hailed as the Party’s new savior. Just like Rick Perry, Michele Bachmann, Chris Christie, Sarah Palin and Donald Trump before him. You get the feeling Michael Moore could announce and assume top spot in the polls.

Cain says he wants to do for America what he did for pizza. The hell does that mean? Reduce us by half the way he did Godfather Pizza stores when he took over for Pillsbury? Make the country crispy crusty and covered in cheese? Maybe he’ll recycle that old marketing motto “Pakistan will sleep with the fishes.”

Cain is a straight talking businessman whose boiled down economic policy is a catchy: “999.” Targeted straight to the cerebral cortex of the average American voter. Three syllables. 9% income tax, 9% corporate tax and 9% national sales tax. But he’s got to be careful, because a national sales tax not only puts him square in Tea Party crosshairs, it opens him up to charges of appearing European. Of course, in Germany “Nein, nein, nein,” takes on a whole new meaning.

He brags he’s the only candidate never to have held elective office, inferring that the Oval Office should be an entry- level position. Conveniently neglecting to mention he ran for President in 2000 and for a US Senate seat in Georgia in 2004 and lost both races. So, it’s not like he hasn’t tried politics before, he’s just not that good at it.

This is still Romney’s race to lose. Chances of a neophyte wresting the nomination from the human dial tone are longer than the third act of a bad opera, but it would be interesting to see Herman Cain win. Can you imagine racists going to the polls next November, having to choose between two black guys? Their little heads would pop right off.

Ah. October. Patio umbrellas down. Storm windows up. The turning of the leaves. The crisping of our ears. Playoff baseball. Halloween just a few weeks off. We’ll get back to the most bracing month of the year a bit later, but first a few words about the recent decision by major banks to charge customers 5 bucks a month to use ATM cards for routine purchases. And those few words are “You greedy stinking ravenous money-grubbing avaricious pigs.”

How much dough do you have to make? I mean I get it. You are not non-profit organizations. Few of us are. Advertently. Your task is to find new ways to make more moolah. Same here. You just happen to be a whole lot better at it than the rest of us. And with the scratch to rewrite the rules, the skids get greased in your favor. Good for you. But do you really need all the greenbacks? Every single dime? Really?

What were your profits last year? Like a bazilliondy dollars? Shouldn’t that be enough? Do stockholders require double-digit returns every quarter? Incredibly foolish to expect hubris after causing the worst financial crisis in 80 years, but wouldn’t it be wiser to leave behind a couple of bucks for the rest of us? You know, so we can do business with you. Commerce. Otherwise you’ll have all the capital, no customers and be forced to restrict all your interactions to other banks, and trust me, you’re not going to like that.

Or is that the ultimate goal? To gather together all the money in the world, becoming a money museum? Then we pony up pretty colored stones just to look at the money we no longer have. And you know what happens then. You make it your mission to control the world’s supply of pretty colored stones. Go ahead. We’ll switch to smooth pointy sticks.

This is not your money we’re talking about. This is my money. You supposed to pay me for your use of my money. That’s the deal. What’s the interest rate on savings accounts now, .02%? Oh right, the fed is maintaining artificially low interest rates to boost economic climes. But shouldn’t that mean the interest rate on my credit cards goes down too? I’m paying 20%. In some states that’s known as usury and is illegal. For crum’s sake, you can strike a better deal on the street with Vinnie.

Nickel and diming us to death? Hah! Those were the good old days. Now you’re squeezing every penny so hard Lincoln’s head is starting to squirt liquid copper. There’s a charge for using a teller. A charge for not using a teller. A charge for telling the teller where to stick the charge. “Convenience fees” from our friendly neighborhood financial institutions. Use a rival bank and the charges get doubled or tripled or whatever “ed” you call times 36. What are those? Infidelity fees?

Don’t you get it? It’s My Money. We’re not talking about credit cards where I pay you to lend me some quick cash. These are automatic deductions from an account into which I have already placed ample coin of the realm. MY MONEY! Keep your stinking paws off my money, you damn stinking apes. Wow. Sorry. As you can see, I’m a bit ambivalent on this one. Oh yeah. October. October sucks.

It’s human nature. We mostly want what we can’t have. Grass is greener. The romantic lure of the unattainable. Knowledge that high school girls have long-since weaponized. Nothing entices a hormonally imbalanced freshman like flouncing down a crowded hall laughing through a gaggle of friends with a flip of the pony- tail and nary a backwards glance. Of course, a short skirt doesn’t hurt.

Same holds true in politics. A short skirt doesn’t hurt. No matter how many dance partners the Republicans convince to attend their courtship gala, you’d swear their head was on ball bearings the way they keep swiveling to the door to see who might be lurking outside. Waiting for the bad boy rock stars to finish their smokes in the parking lot and make a grand entrance. Or spin out to the highway spitting a rooster-tail of gravel.

Can’t blame them. The Right is just getting over its relationship with an older man, which ended badly, and hungering for some excitement. The reason they can’t get it up for the geeks and dorks and stalwarts like Huntsman and Paul and Santorum and Cain. Oh sure, they’re tolerated and marginally encouraged but with an enthusiasm one normally associates with favorite dish- towels and serviceable oil filters. Library boys. Not the smooching kind.

But to the GOP’s dismay, all the heartthrobs have left the building. Donald Trump flirted extensively this spring, but then ran away with his true love, reality television, that tramp. Ms. Popular Transfer Student, Sarah Palin, dragged out her coquettish tease so long, even the most bewitched of beaus lost interest. On the rebound, blushing and gushing, Michele Bachmann accepted a corsage, but shortly after was discovered cheating with a corn dog, and jittery suitors fell out of love faster than a middle school girl vis-a-vis Justin Beiber.

After extended entreaties, Rick Perry triumphantly waltzed in to the fanfare of a conquering quarterback, and was immediately voted Homecoming King. No more calls, we have a winner. For about a week. Then, the Texas Governor unraveled like a badly knitted letter sweater caught in a threshing machine. A series of threshing machines. Seven to ten.

Even he admits he may have stumbled in debate class. Yeah. Stumbled being a polite way of saying “dug a hole deep enough to hide at least half of those very threshers of which earlier we spoke.” The more the cheerleaders saw of Captain Haircut, the more the bloom vamoosed the rose. Zero to 60 in 5.6.

With the dance but a couple months away, conservatives are franticly whining and pining for a savior to rise from these streets, turning their attention east to woo another Governor, Chris Christie of New Jersey. They’re Crazy for Christie. The right Mr. Right. Too big to fail. Flattered, Christie toned down his persistent “Not interested” to a titillating “let’s wait and see.” Oooh. Shivers.

Christie clearly relishes the role of vamping vixen, but continues to dither, aware that his date is a bit fickle, having tossed prospective partners like Kleenex in the midst of a bad cold. Meanwhile, Mitt Romney patiently waits dressed in his gown standing at the door. Wondering when the GOP will settle down, come to their senses and get their philandering over with. Might want to change out of those heels, and while you’re at it, a short skirt doesn’t hurt.

It’s all a dance, really. A Democratic president summons the gumption to call for higher taxes on the rich and Republicans cry like third graders having their ice cream taken away and given to the neighbor’s dog. Invoking the hoariest of chestnuts; that oldie but goodie; as predictable as mushy green grapes in a fruit salad: The Class War Boogie.

For some reason, it’s always a war with these guys. The War on Christmas. Culture Wars. War on Terror. The Crusades. Then they accuse Democrats of being emotionally unequipped for battle. Well, which is it? You can’t have it both ways. Actually, you can. It just makes choosing which one to cruelly abandon to the wolves of winter that much more difficult. Or not.

When taxes are raised on the rich, that’s class warfare, but when subsidies are handed out to giant corporations who siphon jobs offshore so that rich people can have more money, that’s Trickle-Down Economics. What Barack should do is rename his efforts to balance the playing field, “Trickle-Up Economics.” That would at least confuse them. Although after watching the last couple of debates, confusion does not seem to be in short supply.

We’re not even allowed to call them rich anymore. They’re “job creators” now. And yes, jobs are being created. In Mexico. And Vietnam. And China. The American Dream is alive and well, just not here. It’s our own damn fault, really. American workers have ruined everything with their irrational demands for safe working conditions and a living wage. Who do we think we are? Stockholders?

Republicans have been as strident as a looped siren in a stainless steel silo in their opposition to a specific Obama proposal called the Buffett Rule, which calls for billionaires like Warren Buffett to pay the same tax rate as their secretaries. The GOP prefers the Jimmy Buffett Rule, which postulates that anybody worried about next month’s rent money- start drinking Margaritas until they pass out.

You know what, they’re right. It is a class war. The rich started it and their side is winning. They’ve bombed the middle class into submission burying jobs and pensions, playing chicken at the precipice with default to protect their precious aristocracy from paying one puny penny more in taxes. Cheap. Cheap. Cheap.

40% of all income gains in the last decade have trickled up to the wealthiest 1%. The richest 400 families in this country control more money than the bottom 150 million people put together. We’re moving from Depression levels of income inequality into French Revolution territory. Isn’t that Madame LaFarge over there in the corner knitting?

What is it with the rich? How much money do they need? How many cars can one person drive? How many beluga caviar cream cheese canapés can they consume at a single cocktail party? How many silk pajamas with platinum threads can you spill your Dom Perignon White Gold Mimosa on at a time? Okay, three. That’s what Hilda is for. One of the things.

And these are the people complaining about a class war? You want rules, how bout the Rolex Tourbillon Rule? Mandating that any job creator wearing a watch worth more than a house who ever mentions class warfare, gets a hose shoved down his throat and goose liver pumped in until pate leaks from their ears. Less war-like. More food-fighty.

Okay, so we’re broke. Not “have to stretch to next payday” broke. Really broke. Our accounts are overdrawn, the credit cards are maxed out and if that’s China on the phone, tell them we just stepped out. Yes, again.

We’re in an economic hole so deep we’re bumping elbows with blind moles. Can feel the heat from the core of the earth on the soles of our feet. Need a co-signer to play pinball. We’re so broke, Greece won’t play backgammon with us anymore.

And its no use pretending we’re not broker than a television set in Elvis’ bedroom either. That’ll just make it worse. First thing, we have to stop acting like we’re still rolling in the green. Can’t keep ordering the prix fixe menu anymore. Got to learn to lay off the foie gras. Its hot dog time in America again.

What this country needs right now is tough love to get through these rough times. Common- sense solutions. I’m not talking about the futile recommendations Super Congress is busy formulating. Those won’t be remedies. Those will be more mere election year platitudes. As inevitable as gratuitous gore in a Danny Trejo movie. Like cookies in day care. Erasers on golf pencils.

When this sort of thing happens to families, they find ways to tighten their belts. Come up with plans to cut back on expenses and bring in extra money. Exactly what we should be doing now. So allow me to offer up a few modest proposals to help get this country back on its feet.

• Do we really need 9 Supreme Court Judges? Couldn’t we slide by with 7? Considering recent decisions, I’d hazard to say a junior grade Justice Department law clerk could flip a coin and handle the job as well.
• There’s no reason why the feds should continue to fund expensive Congressional elections in the Bible Belt. What we do is give the candidates an IQ test and the one with the lowest science score wins. A cheap alternative for the same result.
• Pretty apparent we can’t afford to indulge in high priced fossil fuels anymore. Time to shift into bio- fuels. Ethanol, sure, but a better bet would be methane, especially with the incredibly abundant supply being regularly emitted out of our representatives in DC.
• As far as revenue is concerned, what about renting out our armed forces to the highest bidder? We could use them to thwart or promote revolutions. Oh wait, we already do that. Well, we should charge more.
• Check out at all the wasted white space on the side of the Washington Monument. Perfect spot for a skinny vertical billboard wouldn’t you say? Don’t worry; we’ll just advertise one tall latte at a time. Or two. The exclusivity makes it worth more.
• Institute a $25 cover at all borders. If we can’t stop the people from streaming over, let’s at least make a couple of bucks off of them. Once that’s established, we add on a two- drink minimum.
• Instead of working surreptitiously to influence foreign elections, we could offer up our official endorsement for a hefty charge. Or, if it would better assist our client’s needs, we’d announce our uncompromising support for their opponent. I’m thinking that option would be the more popular. And command a premium fee.

A full complement of Republican presidential candidates gathered for the battle royale at the Ronald Reagan Library in Seamy (Simi) Valley, California. And though he was only there in spirit, the Great Communicator could easily have supplied the power for the entire proceedings had the networks harnessed him spinning in his grave like a rotisserie chicken in the middle of a power surge.

The 8 challengers for his mantle didn’t just break the Gipper’s 11th Commandment, “Thou shall not speak ill of other Republicans,” they stomped on it with football cleats and shoved it down a sewer grate with a broken rake handle. It was a red meat, power-tie slam dance with operatic overtones.

Anticipation ran higher than Charlie Sheen on New Year’s Eve that a hockey match would break out and the blood thirsty audience was not going to be satisfied until lecterns dripped with copious spillage. Before Rick Perry could answer Brian Williams’ question about the execution of 234 inmates on his watch, they erupted into applause like an emeritus alumni crowd at Assassins State University during homecoming. Creeping the moderator out more than pinworms in the bottom of his footie pajamas.

Eyes on the prize, Newt Gingrich cautioned panel mates to keep the attacks focused on Obama, while castigating the media for trapping them in this internecine warfare. The rest of the contingent affectionately dismissed his admonition the way a group of Oakland Raider tailgaters would an elderly aunt wandering into a discussion on blitz protection. Newt Gingrich- the soul of reason. Something has gone horribly awry.

We did learn that Michele Bachmann believes in $2 a gallon gasoline and “a strong bold leader who will lead,” and that she spent the last three weekends going to restaurants and thinks drilling for oil in the Everglades is a good idea. So, apparently she’s planning an electoral strategy that disincludes Florida’s mighty 27.

Rick Perry hates cancer and called Social Security “a Ponzi scheme,” not once, but three times, so Florida is obviously not on his front burner either. Arch-enemy to all things science, Perry supported his “climate change, what climate change” philosophy by comparing himself to Galileo. You can’t make stuff up like this.

Ron Paul has been mauled by the TSA and is not happy about it or much of anything else. Second time through, it is virtually impossible for Willard Mitt Romney to be out-smugged by anybody, even an unctuous Texan. Hermann Cain likes Chile. The country, not the food. And the major difference between Elvis Presley and Rick Santorum’s candidacy is… there is none, they’re both rock salt, shaved-dust, dead.

Jon Huntsman may be running for the wrong party’s nomination. Trying to steer the group from the edge of various abysses, he and Newt shared the big boy babysitter role, while Bachmann lost more momentum than a dark matter anvil hitting a freeway sound wall. Big winner… Sarah Palin. For being prescient enough to not to have made up her mind yet.

But there’s plenty of time. This was just the premier stop for the traveling abattoir. There are dozens of chances for continued bloodletting until either Perry or Romney drops from the death of 1000 cuts, or they take each other out in a murder-suicide pact. While Team Obama roots for Perry from the sidelines the same way Jimmy Carter cheered on Bonzo’s sidekick back in 80. Be careful what you wish for.

I pledge. You pledge. We all pledge. Pledge allegiance to the flag. Pledge to stop smoking and drinking. As much. In front of the kids. NPR and PBS are ridiculous with their annoying pledge drives. Our leaders pledge and pledge and pledge to stop ignoring the past. Then they don’t. And in every second living room in America you can smell Lemon Pledge. These are the pledges of our lives.

But this campaign season, the whole pledging thing has rocketed out of control with broken O-rings. To where anybody who plans on getting up close and personal with a Republican candidate in the near future might want to carry an oath-repelling umbrella because pledges are raining down like frog parts after a methane gas explosion in the amphibian wing of an aquarium.

The pledges have become longitudinally rampant, running all over the map from gay marriage to abortion to Shariah law to the teaching of intelligent design. Which we can all agree is neither. Keep waiting for the American Association of Apple Growers to issue its demand that potential nominees publicly vow to avoid blueberry pies while running for president. “Communists eat cherry pie.” “Meringue is so French.” “Rhubarb is for Wussies.”

Rick Perry recently signed the Anti-Gay Marriage Pledge, which counteracts his previous pledge to leave the question up to the states. So, according to him, pandering homophobia trumps states rights. Of course Rick Perry not so long ago pledged not to run for President, so he seems to have a rather fluid attitude as far as these pledges go. This good ol’ boy needs to be careful lest he get labeled a pledging contradicter.

Righter than right conservatives first gained success with the Susan B Anthony Pledge in which anybody running for president promises to appoint antiabortion cabinet members. Then out flew the Cut, Cap and Balance Pledge, which cuts, caps and balances the budget, focusing on giving rich people more money.

And now, the Marriage Vow, which is similar to, yet different from the Anti-Gay Marriage Pledge. In this, candidates oppose same sex marriage, reject Shariah Law and pledge personal fidelity to their spouse. Which you’d think they’d have done during their wedding, but you never know with these kids and their crazy vows these days.

Haven’t heard anything about the Paris Hilton pledge to wear underwear while getting out of cars. Or the Foot-Long Corn Dog Pledge: never to allow photography while eating at the State Fair. And let’s not forget the Charlie Sheen Career Management Pledge, in which people take an intractable oath not to embarrass everyone they’ve ever met. Then again, these are politicians.

The Marriage Vow is the one that said black children born into slavery were more likely to be raised by a two-parent family than African-American children today, which some people pointed out kind of, almost, nearly, endorsed slavery. Little bit. Although Michele Bachmann admitted signing it, she later recanted, claiming not to have read it.

Oh, there you go. Signed it but didn’t read it. You know what we need? I’ll tell you what we need. We need candidates willing to sign a pledge not to sign any pledges they haven’t read. And bearing in mind the state of illiteracy currently in evidence, that in itself should cut down on this widespread pledging, considerably.

The Republican strategy for 2012 seems simple enough. It’s a numbers game. They plan to flood the market. Set up an all-you-can-eat candidate buffet. If you don’t like the potential nominee in front of you, try the next steam table. An appetizing aspirant is bound to bubble up. Or not. But at least you’re moving around and getting some exercise.

The latest and greatest Great White GOP Hope to throw his hat into the ring is Rick Perry, and its no ordinary hat either; we’re talking ten gallon here, folks. It appears we got ourselves another governor from Texas looking to be president. Yep, that’s just what this country needs. And species-jumping hookworms. More of those too.

To Texas Democrats, he’s “Captain Haircut,” and to watch the high ranked coiffure campaign is déjà vu all over again. He’s George Bush Lite. And yes, the redundant heights of that phrase are indeed vertigo inducing. Similar to saying… uncomfortable bus seat. Or… disingenuous oil industry spokesperson. Perry is the candidate for those of you who couldn’t cozy up to Dubyah due to his intellectual elitism.

Governor Rick himself highlighted this distinction, crowing to supporters that he went to Texas A&M while Bush went to Yale. Ain’t that just like a Texan? Bragging about attending a less prestigious school. See, he’d be better for the nation because he’s not so smart. And already leading the polls. The Pied Piper of lowered expectations.

Perry claims he only entered the fray because God told him to. Of course, Michele Bachmann says God called on HER to run for President. So, either someone is fibbing, God is off his meds again, or we’re talking about two entirely different deities. Begging the question: which god hates America that much? Kali? Pele? The Mighty Thor? Eric Clapton?

The longest serving Governor in Texas history possesses a mouth big enough to match his hat, having accused Fed Head Ben Bernanke of treason and calling Social Security a Ponzi scheme. Not to worry: staffers are proving their mettle with some nifty major league hemming and hawing and harrumphing and walking back that statement faster than a toddler can spit milk through his nose.

Demonstrating his Lone Star kick-buttedness, Perry vetoed a bill banning the execution of mentally retarded inmates, so he doesn’t just embrace the death penalty, he nuzzles it. 234 on his watch. Probably can’t go to sleep until sneaking a peek at his dog-eared lethal injection technical manual stuck between the mattress and box spring. One of those humane proponents of electric bleachers.

James Richard Perry also gained a bit of notoriety last year when he shot a coyote while jogging. Hate to play tennis with this guy. If he carries a .380 Ruger with hollow points while jogging, you’d always give him the net worried his racket handle had a built-in bayonet. And what does he pack on hunting trips, a Howitzer?

Be interesting to see if Perry can sell himself nationally while still maintaining Texas has a deal with the federal government allowing the state to secede at anytime. Should investigate whether that option is mutual. In the meantime, they’re sliding another dish under the sneeze guard. It’s smooth and chunky and piping hot. Hey! Is that Chris Christie?

Oh sure, they made a big show of signing the debt ceiling agreement, with official photo-ops and fancy commemorative pens all accompanied by great racking sighs of relief. But now both Congress and the President are having second thoughts; treating the deal like a dead horsefly floating in their cut-glass tumbler of 25 year-old Scotch. You’d find more enthusiasm from the contestants of a beach volleyball tournament surveying a sand court littered with scorpions scurrying under a sea of broken beer bottles.

Speaking of scorpions, included in the agreement was a provision forming a committee responsible for future deficit reduction. 12 members appointed by party leaders from both the House and Senate. Whose mission, should they accept it, is to find 1.5 trillion dollars over a ten year period digging past the bare bones, down into the marrow.

Charged to construct a plan by Thanksgiving Eve or risk triggering automatic cuts. Doomsday cuts. Cuts designed to frighten politicians from the most stable of districts. That’s right: cuts to the military.

A majority of the committee, equally split between Republicans and Democrats, must agree on the proposal to send it to the whole of Congress who will vote either up or down with no amendments or filibusters allowed: meaning one member has to cross party lines, which is about as likely as pimento flavored Velveeta taking first place in the 2012 World Championship Artisan Cheese Contest.

Even though the American public and pretty much every economist on the face of the planet agrees we need a balance between entitlement cuts and revenue enhancement, the Democrats already snapped that entitlement cuts are off the table and the Republicans are shouting no new revenue will be accepted, so really, what they did was not so much kick the can down the road, but throw it onto the back of a passing flatbed truck where it disappeared over the asphalt horizon.

Now, this group has been called many things. Useless. The Supercommittee. Business as Usual. The Twerpy Twelve. A Dozen Punters. The Craven Caucus. Esteemed Assembly of the Ill-Advisable. League of the Unexceptionally Pontificating Pool of Party Hacks. But most commonly, it is referred to as: “Super Congress.”

“Slower than a slug on Thorazine; less powerful than a soggy Kleenex; unable to compromise in a million years. Look! Up in that swiveling leather club seat of that private jet. It’s a ruse, it’s a sham, it’s… Super Congress.

Yes, Super Congress. Strange hybrid from another reality, come to Capitol Hill with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal members.

Super Congress. Who can change the course of appropriations, bend ethics regulations in the wink of an eye and who, disguised as… the United States Congress Joint Select Committee on Deficit Reduction, mild mannered functionary of the Hall of Invertebrates, fights the never ending battle against Truth, Justice and the American Way.”

And when their capes are discarded and utility belts back in storage, we can move onto the next level of logical suspension and form the Super Duper Congress. Then… Son of Super Duper Congress. And call in Batman or maybe the Justice League or reconvene the Watchmen or that little guy who talks backwards and doesn’t make any sense. Mr. Mxyztplk. You may know him as: Ron Paul. More scorpions, please.

Sorry if you settled into your recliner ready to enjoy the blessed silence destined to descend on the political playing field in the aftermath of the Debt Ceiling Death Match. Lasted as long as the life cycle of an adult mayfly. That momentary blissful peace was rudely broken by a cacophony of squeaks and grunts and shouts as each camp tried to out blame the other for the thudding crash Wall Street made falling down a well. Quick, go find Lassie.

It appears the Market is not impressed with the two-step deal Congress agreed to kicking and screaming. Look close and you can see the bones of the middle class sticking out of the confetti left over from the banking and oil industry celebrations. Spending cuts during a recession. There you go. Starve a fever and feed a cold, or the other way around? What the hell, starve them both. We’ll eat when we’re dead.

Hard to understand why Progressives are so mad at Obama. After all, he didn’t do anything. Besides cave faster than an overused supply tunnel in a Chilean coal mine. The difference is, nobody’s rushing out to organize any rescue parties. Happy Birthday Mister President. Sorry we couldn’t get Marilyn to sing. Doubt if Pelosi hummed it either.

The Tea Baggers won, confusing both Democrats and Republicans, by refusing to act like politicians eschewing all the usual motivations such as their own self-interest or party affinity or even the general welfare of the country. You can’t negotiate with cement. Giving proof to the old adage: “never get in a fight with an ugly person, they got nothing to lose.

One fascinating thing to come out of the debt debacle was watching the only adult in the room turn from Great Facilitator into Great Enabler before our very eyes. Obama is so determined to govern from the middle, there should be a double yellow line down the center of his forehead. Democrats may desert him, but he remains king of the Road Kill Party. Would hate to get stuck behind Barack in a grocery line after he was asked “Paper or plastic?” Your ice cream would liquefy waiting for him to convince the clerk he wanted “plaper” or “pastic.”

The Tea Party held the government hostage, and the President fell victim to a wicked case of Stockholm Syndrome, bonding with his captors, until at last, he was able to successfully convince the kidnappers to accept more than they originally asked for.

The administration called the deal a compromise. The same kind of compromise the Titanic arranged with that iceberg. Like how Nagasaki and Hiroshima compromised with Fat Man and Little Boy. Brokered as many concessions as New Orleans got from Katrina. The financial equivalent of handing over Czechoslovakia after extracting a vague promise to possibly leave Poland alone. Trust he got a rolled up umbrella for his birthday.

At this point, you can’t even accuse the Democrats of being afraid of their own shadow because they don’t cast one. Besides, it’s hard to see your shadow when your head is so far up your butt you can tickle your spleen with your elbow. And if they expect any chance at all in 2012, they’d be wise to invest heavily in stem cell research in hopes of regenerating their spine.

The situation on Capitol Hill has become so confusing, we’re going to need a nuclear physicist with a googleplex of serially connected molecular microscopes to precisely explain what is happening. Instead, you got me. This whole debt ceiling debate has made rush hour gridlock on the 405 look like a romantic excursion in Central Park on a bicycle built for two. Nonetheless, I take it upon myself to sort out what’s going on. No need for thanks. Part of my court-ordered community service.

Right now, you could say we find ourselves philosophically constipated and at a bit of a standstill. You could also say that molten lava is hot. Here’s what we know so far: The conservative wing of the Republican Party has stopped talking to Speaker of the House John Boehner. Boehner walked out on President Barack Obama. Probably weeping. Obama finds it impossible to even look at House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi. Pelosi puts her hands over her ears and makes “la-la-la” noises whenever she sees House Majority Leader Eric Cantor.

Cantor challenged Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid to a pugil stick match in the gold stacks at Fort Knox. Reid can barely stand erect. The Tea Party won’t stop shouting long enough to hear the sound of the oncoming financial train wreck bearing down on us. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton has advised Obama not to negotiate with terrorists. Boehner can’t talk to the Tea Party until he finds someone on his staff who speaks gibberish. Calling the situation “bizarro,” Arizona Senator John McCain wandered down the hall looking for a wormhole to Mordor. And finally, Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell has taken to leaping out from under the hangers in the Senate Cloak Room trying to scare the media.

Tea Party members have evidenced their ideological purity by not only refusing to consider any bill that features revenue enhancement, but also shunning anyone who has ever been in a room where revenue enhancement might once have been mentioned. Their mantra is cuts, cuts, cuts. Then sell the blood, blood, blood. They claim to be practicing tough love, with emphasis on the adjective and a void near the noun.

Their enigmatic intransigence has escalated even though they are aware their plan to eviscerate Medicare has less chance of passing a Democratically controlled Senate than a poison dart frog has of co-starring with Angelina Jolie in a Jim Henson produced remake of “Spartacus.” Democrats need to avoid the slippery slope of entitlement slashing, due to the alarming frequency with which old people vote.

The Righter than Right’s message is an update on the old “My way or the highway,” coming more from the asphalt contractor’s view. “My way or become part of the highway.” The attack dogs are so wound up they’re turning on their own leaders. Boehner had to scold his party to “get your a** in line.” Of course, internal fears are they will then inadvertently form a tunnel.

The whole noisy lot of them continue to run around like chickens with their heads cut off and that choice of fowl is anything but accidental. This is less the tail wagging the dog than the flea on the tip of the last hair on the tail wagging the whole Iditarod Kennel. And I hope that clear things up better than a dump truck full of fertilizing manure in a children’s inflatable pool. But I doubt it.

Give Congress the benefit of the doubt and say they do work out a compromise on the debt ceiling extension. This country could still slip into default, leading to the worst possible scenario imaginable - We have to move back in with England. Who’s going to be happy then? Nobody. You think it’s embarrassing slinking home after graduating college, try waiting 235 years.

Already dreading the dressing down we’ll be forced to patiently endure should we make it through the front door. “Well, well, well, look who’s back. Seems someone couldn’t hack it out on our own, could they, Mister I’m Ready for Independence? How’s it feel to be labeled a fading superpower? Not much bloody fun being mocked by the neighbors, is it boyo?

Notice you didn’t rush right over to your good friend China’s house. What’s the matter, did you have a fight with your new BFF? Or are they wanting their loans back? What about Egypt? Don’t they owe you a bit of something? Or did you squander it away like your post 911 goodwill? Typical.

So. Here you are. I suppose you’ll be wanting your old room back. Well, you can forget it. Pakistan has been renting that room for almost three decades. Very tidy people. And quiet. Too quiet, if you ask me. But they cook. Nice break for your mother. Stinks up the kitchen a bit with all those spices, but quite tasty really.

What in Hades is wrong with you? Why couldn’t you manage your money better like your younger brother Canada? Yes, they’re a bit boring, but solid as Gibraltar. You never see Canada in the foyer with their bags around their feet like a homeless person. Nose to the grindstone, that’s Canada in a nutshell. Still respect their Royals. Nothing like you or that drunken lout Australia, but don’t get me started.

Okay. Now this is totally against my better judgment but your mother says you can crash on the basement couch. Just for a couple of weeks, mind you. But this isn’t the Ritz. While you live in this house, you will live by our rules, mister. That means the TV shuts off at 10pm. Sharp. And yes, there’s only 4 channels. Stop whingeing.

No more making fun of the Queen. You hear me? And not a single smirking word about Rupert Murdoch. Can’t say your hands are altogether clean on that one, now can we? Look at me when I’m talking to you. And get this through your thick skull, health care is free. For everybody. The stitches may be a mite larger than you’re accustomed from your fancy Beverly Hills surgeons, but I dare say you’ll get used to it.

One last thing, no more wars. If I hear of one more scrape you’ve gotten yourself into, you’ll be back on the street so fast it’ll make David Cameron’s head spin. Faster. Nobody wants you mucking about with your sticky little fingers in their business anymore. Do we understand each other? Good.

Now get yourself downstairs. Unpack and wash up. Put on a tie. Supper’s at 5. By the looks of you, I’d wager you haven’t missed many meals. And straighten up while you’re down there. Make sure there’s a clean spot under the stairwell; we’re setting up a cot. Ireland just called. They’re on their way over.”

Run for the hills everybody! Armageddon is imminent! The sky is beyond falling; it’s anvil plummeting! Onto our heads so fast the clouds are whistling the love theme from the movie “2012.” The US economy is about to meltdown like a popsicle left on a Palm Springs picnic table and it’s only a matter of time before this country liquefies into Greece’s financial twin without the pleasant distraction of all that melodious zither music.

Seniors and sick people and soldiers are destined to be tossed into the streets to battle mutant rats for food. The 3 branches of the government will inevitably be deemed too expensive and we’ll be forced to let one go. All hell is about to break loose. Don’t you get it? We’re doomed! Doomed!! Then again, maybe not.

What is clear, is, well, nothing. We kind of, almost, pretty much, but might not really know for sure: Unless Congress agrees to raise the Debt Ceiling by August 2nd, America’s authority to borrow money will expire and the government may or mayn’t shut down. What that means, nobody knows. Could be not so good or it could be really really bad or it could be stick your head between your knees and kiss your butt goodbye bad.

And yes, I can hear you whispering, “hey, schmucko, shutting down the government doesn’t sound half bad to me. About time we kicked those freakin’ freeloaders off of the dole.” Point well taken. But understand - the responsibility for those big red “Freeloader” stickers you’re so anxious to plaster on parasitic foreheads will not be given to you. It will be handed from one government bureaucrat to another government bureaucrat, which means your forehead could easily end up sporting a big red sticker. Got to remember - one man’s pork is another man’s hickory smoked bacon bits.

Both parties are now striding histrionically across the stage pronouncing in loud mellifluous tones how determined and proud they are to stick to their core principles while demanding that the other side be the first to compromise. The theory being the other side is more likely to abandon their core principles because, let’s be honest, they aren’t really core principles at all, so much as they are re-election talking points. And you know what, they’re right. Who? Yes.

The Republicans are demanding cuts in entitlement programs, which the President said he’d consider. The Democrats have in their own inimitable roundabout way brought up the possibility of maybe raising taxes on a few rich people, which Eric Cantor, the Under Speaker of the House, says he won’t consider.

And that, my friends, is pretty much where we stand right now. Although the word “stand” might be affording the participants a wee bit too much credit. Squirm. Slink. Skulk. Dodge. Creep. Crouch. Lurk. Loiter. Weasel. Cower. Any of these might be more apropos.

Unfortunately, this is, was, and forever shall be, the way of things in Congress. Much hollow bluster and empty fury in a noisy gamble to appease the base until it becomes crystal clear whom the general populace (Independents) blames for the gridlock, then everyone quickly signs something nobody likes and both parties walk off declaring victory. Think of it as the New Vietnamization of Congressional negotiation. No peace at all and very little honor.

Allow me to offer up a few words in defense of one of the most maligned groups in America today. Citizens, who through a simple twist of fate, are routinely subjected to some of the most scathing condemnation and slanderous stereotyping in the annals of recorded history. Of course I’m talking about those unsung heroes of capitalism, the highly lubed pistons in the engine of our economy: the rich.

Isn’t it time we stopped demonizing the wealthy simply because they have a couple more bucks? You’ve heard all the scurrilous charges: Greedy. Selfish. Thieving. Insatiable. Rapacious. Grasping. Hog-like. Power-mad. Heartless. Wear a lot of pink. And what’s the deal with the no socks thing? Like they can’t afford them?

People, settle down. The rich are just like the rest of us, only with access to a better class of orthodontists. They put their Egyptian silk trousers on one leg at a time, same as you and me. Besides, wasn’t it God, in the Bible, who said money can’t buy happiness? Although admittedly, it can be used as barter for a lot of stuff that might make you happy: like prescription drugs and bus fare and rent and ramen.

Being rich isn’t all a bed of roses, you know. Its not easy having green. You can’t trust anybody. That includes but is not limited to- perfect strangers, casual acquaintances, prospective suitors, family members, non-profit organizations, banks, shysters, crooks and lawyers, but I repeat myself, not to mention the most dangerous threat of all, other rich people. Do the names Bernie Madoff, Warren Buffett and the Kardashians have any meaning here?

Off-shore accounts can be sooooooo confusing. The cost of private jet fuel is legalized extortion. And good housekeeping help is impossible to find. Scoundrels constantly plot to make your money, their money. Hence, rich people are forced to cower in a continual state of paranoia. But like buttery soft vicuna sport coats, it comes with the territory. Nobody robs poor people. Well, actually, rich people rob poor people, but that’s different. That’s business.

The main problem with being rich is never having enough money. And while liberals gripe and snipe that the rich and their corporations are sitting on trillions (no, really, trillions) of dollars waiting for the “correct political climate” to rehire workers, the fact that they employ thousands and thousands of lawyers to ferret out loopholes to keep from paying taxes goes criminally unreported. It’s all about jobs.

I know what you’re saying, “how can you defend these avaricious squeezebags? These scabrous zits on the forehead of egalitarianism? These predatory pus wads with the principles of diseased weasels in heat.” Well, self-preservation mostly; because someday, like everybody else in this great land of ours, I intend to be rich. A major reason why Democrats find it impossible to wage a class war.

The difference is, I’d be a really good rich person. Would cheerfully pay my fair share of taxes and regularly engage little people in sparkling small talk and never stiff waiters or prostitutes no matter how lousy the service received. How rich? Filthy rich. Rich enough not to stuff the Kleenex box in my suitcase when I check out of hotel rooms. I’d leave it right there on the bathroom sink for the next guy. Hey, it’s a goal.

You don’t need me to tell you that this country is broke. Not just broke. Flat busted. Unflush. Tapped to the max. No bread or cabbage or scratch to speak of. Moolahless. Holes in our pockets. Fresh out of chump change. Sans simoleons. Hands sparkling clean of any filthy lucre. Moths flying out of our wallets. Lot of red numbers. Flinching from the whistle of the wind over our empty piggy banks. Got us a dearth of dead presidents is what we got.

So it’s high time we start acting like it. As has been pointed out by pundits and politicians o’plenty, the guvmint needs to do what normal Merican families do when they run into desperate straits: pretend nothing is going on while we watch reality TV shows and drink lots of beer. No, no, no. Tried that. Didn’t work.

First off, we got to stop handing over money to rogue nations that simply use it to buy guns they then turn on us. If we insist on helping these toads out, we should eliminate the middleman and furnish the guns direct. We can buy in much bigger bulk than they, procuring them cheaper, saving bundles of cash. And we taxpayers keep the kickbacks instead of the politicians. Win-win.

Secondly, we should take advantage of this Arab Spring democracy movement. Provides the perfect cover to lay off some of our under performing dictators. Isn’t it about time we co-opted a new generation of despots? Since they’d be junior journeymen oppressors, they should cost less. Like major corporations lay off expensive senior executives, we’ll replace our pricey aging tyrants.

But we all know it’s not enough to make a few minor cuts in the budget, we also have to work on increasing revenue. And I don’t mean selling off ancient public institutions like various national monuments or Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Their resale values ain’t what they used to be. Although it might help to seasonally adjust the bottom line.

We need to think outside the box. Direct Research and Development to produce and sell something that every American needs. Like an anti SARS serum. The deal is, we engineer and market the antidote now, then fashion a huge penicillin-resistant SARS scare later, and have the FDA approved shot or salve or cream or clear or whatever available at your local pharmacy in time for cold and flu season? Tie-Ming. Not just a city in China.

Doesn’t have to be SARS. Could be anything. If SARS is too scary for the squeamish, lay down a few well-placed rumors of rampaging mutant Killer Carnivorous Snails from France and change the product to Fast Acting Snail Repellent. Same formula. Different packaging. Then ratchet up the panic with a bunch of infomercials. You know: news stories. Fox. CNN. Bloomberg. Create an imaginary vacuum and fill it. Worked for the Tea Party.

Even if it does eventually come out the whole event was manufactured, the residual damage would be minimal. What’s the worst that could happen? People lose faith in their elected leaders? Oh no. Not that. The government is already lying to us on a regular basis, the least we can do is figure out how to make some money off of it. Got to ask ourselves: What would Microsoft do?

CNN hosted the first GOP debate of the year that involved actual candidates and some clear winners did emerge. The 99.99% of the American people who neglected to watch it. But for the sixteen of us who did, the strategy of the combatants was more obvious than a wooly mammoth skeleton in a stairwell. Bash Obama. Take a breath, bash again. And repeat.

Every time the frontrunner, Mitt Romney, spoke, he circumvented the actual question and relentlessly whipped into a monotonous “failure of leadership” mantra like a broken hand puppet. To the point where he needs be careful to keep a respectful distance from the phrase or distracted voters might think it reflects him. “Romney? Yeah, he’s the failure guy.”

You could say that Obama’s Failure has been the chosen Republican tactic. You could also say that water is an effective medium for whale migrations. Repeatedly claiming his abject non-success to be their number one priority, the Party of Lincoln facilitated much executive stumbling by tripping the President at every step of every way since day one. If Obstructionism were an Olympic Sport, these guys would have more gold around their necks than Mr. T.

The purpose of the loyal opposition is to oppose, but lately Republicans act like they’d rather the economy sink like a diesel engine in a swimming pool than Obama be given credit for a scintilla of its comeback.

The contestants then proved their bona fides by competing to see who most disliked the president. “Oh yeah, well, I really really hate him.” “I hate him worse than chigger mites.” “Responsible for all evil worldwide throughout history and into perpetuity.”

Amongst themselves however, it was a veritable love fest as the dais genuflected at Ronald Reagan’s altar, strictly honoring his 11th commandment, “Thou shall not speak ill of other Republicans.” Mouths were clamped shut tighter than Bernie Madoff’s credit line in Vegas.

Tim Pawlenty failed to modify his “boring as porridge” reputation, shrinking from repeating his previous day’s charge that the President patterned his health care overhaul on Romney’s Massachusetts plan. To which the Mittmeister responded “The President is going to eat those words.” Whoa, dude. Tough talk. Obviously trying to nail down those NASCAR Dads early.

We did learn that Herman Cain, the only black guy in New Hampshire, doesn’t believe Sharia law belongs in American courtrooms. Good. Neither do poisonous blowfish darts. Newt Gingrich’s upbeat approach was to fix the word “depression” in people’s minds while boasting he’d save 100 billion dollars by not paying crooks. So apparently, he opposes oil and ethanol subsidies and plans to suspend Congressional salaries.

Michele Bachmann might have said something other than Obama Care! Obama Care! Obama Care! But if she did it was unintelligible. Rick Santorum continues to be all about the zygotes. And Ron Paul has something to say about the Federal Reserve, darn it, but nobody, not even his fellow panelists, is interested. Conspicuously absent were solution-based ideas. The shortage approached Soviet bread line standards.

The nomination seekers all dazedly echoed the Reagan hive mind calling for more tax cuts and further deregulation, which back in the day was characterized by George Herbert Walker Bush as Voodoo Economics. In the depths of the crises we find ourselves, doubling down on what got us here seems to go way beyond Voodoo. These wizards are practicing sorcery. More dark magic from yesteryear. Where’s Dumbledore when you need him?

Trust me. I really wanted to avoid the groin tweeting thing altogether but you might as well try to avert your eyes from a bullfight in a bowling alley. To the average civilian, the subject must seem riper than a three-week old banana for major mocking and scoffing and taunting. Slam-dunking from a step-ladder. The problem is: how do you parody a parody?

Unfortunately, the unfortunately named Anthony Weiner is the only game in town, sucking all the oxygen out of the newsroom. For instance, it’s almost impossible to discover the subject of Sarah Palin’s newest Revisionist History Lesson. Did Abraham Lincoln declare war on the French to sabotage tort reform? Even the resignation of Newt Gingrich’s entire campaign staff went relatively unnoticed. Apparently their love of their country is just too strong.

And the whole brouhaha is the New York Democrat’s own damn fault. There wouldn’t have been half the outcry if his name wasn’t a synonym for sausage. After all, the choice of pronunciation is his. Could have taken a page out of John Boehner’s playbook. Of course, boner-baner is way different than wiener-whiner. Whiner is still a lousy name for a politician. Appropriate perhaps, especially for a Democrat, but lousy nonetheless. Its one of those rock and a hard place deals. But he could have gone bold: “Yes, its spelled W-E-I-N-E-R, but we pronounce it… Schultz.”

His singular consolation has to be his parents didn’t add to his misery by christening him Richard. Or Harry. It’s Anthony. Tony Weiner. Which sounds like a high-class hot dog. Or, the cartoon mascot in that animated short we saw in 5th grade health class about the reproductive system. “Hi Kids! I’m Tony Wiener. Ready for a fast ride down the fallopian tube? Okay! Hard hats on? Let’s go.”

Congressman Weiner, and boy, isn’t that turning out to be generically redundant, first lied about his unique approach to junk mail, but after allegations piled up like parking tickets on an abandoned VW Van in a white zone, he broke down and was frank about his franking. At long last, he finally could say with certitude that the crotch in question was indeed his.

The Brett Favre wannabe admitted sexting six different women he met online, including a porn star, who reported that he tried to get her to lie about their relationship, but she refused. Pretty sad when the porn industry exhibits higher standards of integrity than Congress. But that’s old news.

So far, Weiner has resisted all calls to step down, which ironically has the Democratic leadership muttering unprintable imprecations under their breath. But the guy didn’t break any laws. He’s just a lout. And you can’t force members of Congress to resign for being an oaf or you’d never be able to assemble a quorum. Besides, I’d be surprised if Harry Reid knows what a Twitter is.

To say that expressions of party support have been scarce is similar to noting that few Episcopal ministers sport flamboyantly inked dragon neck tattoos. Not even good friend Bill Clinton has spoken out in defense of his fellow serial womanizer. Bill Clinton, who officiated at Weiner’s wedding. And doesn’t that explain a lot. Amongst other accomplishments we can now add to the former President’s resume-carrier. Typhoid Bubba.

Like corroded clockwork, the Republicans once again find themselves in the middle of a public relations disaster the size of Jupiter’s largest moon, Ganymede. Specifically, their plan to reform Medicare, which some folks say is akin to a tornado’s plan to reform trailer courts. Of course I’m talking about Paul Ryan’s Roadmap for America’s Future in which utilizes a rusty chain saw to perform major surgery on Medicare without benefit of anesthetic. And don’t even think of staying overnight: this is an outpatient procedure.

The scheme involves replacing blanket care for elders with fixed-value vouchers. You know, like coupons. That’s right, he’s going to hand out health care coupons. Why? Because it would save lots of money, which then could be given to wealthy people through increased tax cuts and besides, everybody knows, old people love coupons.

Perhaps a Schedule Two Roadmap Fix will enlist Groupon to move into the health care field. “Designer Colonoscopies. $2250. ($5,000 Value) Save 55%. Today Only! Need to pre-sell 2500 by 4 pm.” Then we phase in Early-Bird Organ Transplants. And make discounted cardio defibrillators available at your local neighborhood Everything for a Dollar Store.

Cognizant of seniors tendency to mislay important objexts, Ryan thoughtfully unburdens them with having to actually handle the grubby little coupons physically: those will be given directly to the insurance providers for safekeeping. And when people run out of coupon value, banks could be enlisted to suck out account funds for a nominal transaction fee. You know, for our convenience.

Not everyone is toeing the bright red line down the hall. Newt Gingrich, in an unguarded moment on Meet the Press, called the idea right-wing social engineering, no better than left wing social engineering. And less aerodynamic than single wing engineering. Although gliding remains his preferred means of transportation.

However, after a spin transfusion in the bowels of a GOP reeducation camp, the Newt recanted, going on to warn that any ad Democrats air using his TV quote is a lie. Which is redundant, because pretty much every ad using any of his quotes is a lie. After all, he is a known politician.

What has the GOP running scared is a recent special election where Democrats hammered the Medicare issue to win a New York Congressional seat that had been in Republican hands since Ichabod Crane ran on the Whig ticket. Guaranteeing that in the next election, every Democrat in every district all across the country will revive the NY script right down to the placement of the colons.

In an attempt to preempt these anticipated attacks, Republicans are demagoguing Democrats for demagoguing them with “Mediscare” tactics. From the same people who accused Obama of creating death panels last year. If the hypocrisy coming out of their mouths could be bottled and sold to Los Angeles as a studio lubricant we could pay off the national debt in a week with enough left over for a down payment on Beijing.

Obviously the American voters have the attention span of high-speed lint and it’s a long way to the 2012 elections. But you might want to install a protective filter on your TV for the impending tsunami of ads featuring parades of elders being attacked by Paul Ryan’s Tax Cut Zombies from the Planet NO! Excuse me while I slip months into the fetal position behind the couch under a blanket of coupons for the next 17 months.