Forget the almanac. And the calendar. Forget whatever the weatherman or the newspaper or the next-door neighbor with the hair growing out of a mole shaped like the state of Delaware on his nose told you. The true worm-hole opening to summer is not the upcoming solstice on June 21st; it’s the last Monday of May, Memorial Day.

Memorial Day: when the world alters unalterably for every kid and teacher across the land. By now, the cages have either sprung open or the locks are being picked and the imprinted DNA of every true blooded American tingles in anticipation of the ten to twelve weeks of school-free adventures looming ahead like a sun kissed valley below a fog enshrouded summit. Even if we don’t get to stop in the valley, we can recall when we did and grin wistfully.

Officially, the last Monday of May was carved out as a peaceful moment to lay a wreath at the tomb of all the young men and women who sacrificed their lives for the security of this nation not to mention the multitude of valiant drivers tragically lost in midwestern automobile races.

Unofficially, it’s a time for the whole of America to stop in the headlong momentum of the year to lean on a freshly painted picnic table and catch our breath. Summer? Already? How the heck did that happen? Wasn’t it just the other day we were taking down our Xmas cards? Of course some of us still have our Xmas cards up. And just exactly what is wrong with that?

Most importantly, Memorial Day marks the beginning of the flesh-charring season. Our own at the beach eating al fresco for the first time all year and those many brave slow mammals on a freshly scrubbed Weber who gave their lives in order for us to raise our cholesterol levels to heights where sherpas fear to tread.

This is a time for fireworks and pie and tires swinging on ropes over rivers and roasted marshmallows and ice cream on sticks that melt down your hand all the way to the elbow. And golf and corn and hiking and lemonade and thunderstorms and baseball broadcasts on am radio and spending a week in the middle of August jammed in the back of a station wagon with no air conditioning, an incontinent 18 year old basset hound and a leaking Coleman cooler.

Some people even find camping relaxing. Good for them. For me, the outdoors is where the car is. Roughing it means cable TV without Turner Classic Movies. You say Wilderness: I think spotty cell phone reception.

My vacation plans comprise of room service, Perry Mason marathons on hulu.com and the crazed midnight looting of many hotel mini bars. Forgive me folks, but my idea of a good time does not involve sleeping on rocks, going potty behind trees and dodging mosquitoes the size of Lazy Boy recliners. Think more along the lines of waitresses shepherding sweaty bottles of cold beer poolside.

Our season of frenzied leisure will too shortly end on Labor Day, so hurry out there and have one terrific summer full of languid days and untroubled nights. May you frolic and cavort and gambol and caper in a madcap series of wacky zany antics that are fondly remembered always. All while keeping the sand off of your hot dog.

The hell is the deal with male politicians these days? Have they lost their minds? Guys, they’re giving all us men a bad name. And with Charlie Sheen still on the loose, we need the negative publicity the way a platypus needs another spiny knob at the end of its tail. Maybe the reptilian core at the base of our brains senses mortality causing caution to be thrown to the wind spiraling into Bacchanalian chaos while there’s still time. Or maybe we’re just stupider and getting caught more.

Specifically speaking about Dominique Strauss-Kahn: the French former managing director of the International Monetary Fund, accused of assaulting a maid in his Manhattan hotel room. Then petitioned for bail claiming not to be a flight risk, even though he was apprehended trying to fly back to Paris on a plane. Which, if you ask me, is the definition of a flight risk. Dude, you were on a flight. And are a hell of a risk.

This isn’t DSK’s first trip down Abuse of Power Alley. So many women (not afraid anymore) are coming forward, French officials might start requiring parade permits. Easy to see why his friends are upset about him being photographed in handcuffs on a perp walk; the guy looks guiltier than a priest roaming the halls of a boys school with a pocket full of condoms at 3am. Of course, most successful 60 plus year old men share that guilty gleam. Nobody with that kind of power is ever truly innocent.

Strauss-Kahn comes out of the Berlusconi mold with force and intimidation supplanting money and influence but the transgressions remain the same. Something creepy about these sneaky silky smooth suave European pols who can’t stop loving the ladies. You know them. The guys who force you to avoid your eyes at the pool while they strut around in those tight bikini-bottom bathing suits like plum smuggling peacocks.

I get it that power is an aphrodisiac but how and where do all these mens acquire this “your-silly-laws-don’t-apply-to-me” attitude? Is there a secret society that escorts the newly elected to a cave, bends them over, and administers a series of ceremonial entitlement shots? Then again, most politicians don’t need the shots. More like a prerequisite. All those rallies and sycophants and phony smiles and eventually just like mom warned, your face does freeze that way

There’s too many miscreants for it to be a coincidence. In the last couple years and I’m only listing big profile guys: Clinton. Edwards. Livingston. Gingrich. Vitter. Villaraigosa. Gibbons. Foley. Hutchinson. Sherwood. Allen. McGreevy. Ensign. Craig. Sanford. Spitzer. And now former California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger has admitted infidelity. Shocker, hunh. Who knew? What’s next: clam chowder at Denny’s in Boston on a Friday?

Arnold fathered a son with his housekeeper who continued to work for the family for the next 10-14 years. Talk about work ethic. And think of the nerve it took not telling your wife while your illegitimate kid is wandering around the house for more than a decade. That’s chutzpah. The Governator may have taken that whole “acting like a member of the Kennedy clan” thing just a little too far. Of course he may end up hailed as a family hero anyhow. By making JFK look good in comparison.

Out of elective politics for over a decade, dithering on the sidelines like a moody Southern fried Hamlet, Newt Gingrich jumped back into the ring announcing plans to run for the 2012 Republican Presidential nomination. And for every analyst and every pundit and every satirist everywhere, allow me to say: Hooray! Thank you, kind sir, may I have another?

His re-entrance onto center stage is welcome on many fronts. First off, the guy’s name is Newt. Never in the annals of political mockery have we had the chance to make herpetological jokes before or after. And rest assured we will avail ourselves of the opportunity. Expect the phrase Lizard-Boy to reassume a central role in the national lexicon soon.

Then there’s his penchant for routinely ratcheting the rhetoric up past eleven. Hundred. Our recent precipitous plunge into polarization can easily be traced to Gingrich’s scorched earth ascension in the early 90s. There are no honorable opponents in Newt World, only despicable traitors. Each disagreement, a nuclear war. And anybody who isn’t a white male Christian poses a major threat to democracy as we know it and should be vaporized only after having his knees broken as an example.

“Obama is the most radical president in American history and views the citizenry through a Post-Colonial Kenyan perspective.” “The gay fascist movement wants to overthrow the government and destroy religion through violence.” He’s a trash-talking intellectual poseur with the subtlety of a hippo in a tutu.

The good news for Gingrich is that he ranks very high in recognition polls. The bad news for Gingrich is that he ranks very high in recognition polls. The founder and spokesman of Renewing American Leadership comes equipped with more baggage than a Carnival Cruise liner taking on the contents of two stranded sister ships. Might be three people tops in the country whose opinions of the former Speaker of the House haven’t solidified like frozen chicken grease.

Love him or hate him, there’s no in-between; and that includes his own party. To some Republicans, he’s Moses who led them out of the desert to the promised land of taking back the House in 94, for the first time in 40 years. To others he’s Voldermort. Sparking an ill-fated government shutdown then resigning under a cloud of ethics violations: some still refer to him as “He Who Must Not Be Named.”

Dr. Newton Leroy Gingrich is generally considered an ideas man. Not good ideas necessarily, but big ideas. Accusing enemies of being socialist Nazis. That’s new. Also odd ideas, like claiming his adulterous behavior stemmed from loving his country too darn much. So essentially, he did to two mistresses what he wanted to do to us. Thanks ladies. And yet, he attracts evangelical followers with his traditional family values platform. And having three wives just proves he’s Extra Traditional.

Gingrich can’t win and if he’s half as smart as he thinks he is, he has to know that. So, why is he running? To what end? Increased face-time to sell more of his twenty plus books? Can’t get enough of the sound of his own voice? Or is his responsibility simply to throw bombs at all the major edifices and let Mitt Romney waltz through the smoldering ruins unscathed? The only problem is, like sweaty nitroglycerine, Mr. Gingrich is highly charged and unpredictable. A human IED. Run. Newt. Run.

Pull the banner out of storage and string it back across the aircraft carrier. Because this time, Mission Really Accomplished. Barack bested bin Laden. Obama got Osama. Or as the right wing talk shows probably reported it, “Alien President Murders Muslim Brother.” Though not a big fan of the whole killing thing, it would take a stupendously bloodless American to decline the pleasure of hammering a couple of nails into this particular coffin.

The most wanted man on the planet. Found. And you had to admire the way it was done; members of Navy Seal Team Six firing two warning shots into the head. One for each tower. The target was totally unarmed and never had a chance. That’s known as synchronicity. Live by the sneak attack, die by the sneak attack.

President George W Bush famously said: “He can run, but he can’t hide,” and finally was proved right. Although you got to admit, bin Laden gave it a good run: 9 years, 230 days. Think he might have earned Hide and Seek Grand Master Championship status. An award that alas, must be presented posthumously.

Buried at sea, but that’s just a polite way of saying the carcass was kicked overboard. An extreme act of pollution, upon which the Arabian Sea EPA surely frowned. Hopefully, the architect of Ground Zero won’t float across to the Sea of Japan into all that radiation- could spawn a training school of three eyed mutant terrorists.

In a way, it’s too bad we ditched him so soon. Mucho bucks could have been raised by touring the country giving ordinary folks a chance to pose with the corpse like they used to do in the Old West. “Get your picture taken with the Butcher of 911. 10 bucks.” Could have carted the remains around in a refrigerated casket shoved onto the bed of a Ford F-250 traveling to County Fairs and Tractor Pulls. Like what happened with the World Series trophy only with more punching. Eventually the cadaver would end up in Vegas with its own Cirque du Soleil show, or as one of the stiffer stiffs on “Dancing With the Stars.”

The Pakistanis aren’t happy. First they claimed to be an integral partner in the operation. Unh-hunh. “Thanks for your assistance. Here’s a broom. Got to go.” Now they’re whining it made them look bad. You know, our role in making you look bad is superfluous. Head Honcho Al Qaeda himself living for 5 years behind your version of West Point and nobody notices? Right. Like Lady Gaga hiding out at the Vatican. Either you’re complicit, stupid, incompetent, or both.

The safe house was not equipped with internet or phone connection and they burned their trash inside the compound. So, if you think of it, he pretty much was living in hell. All we did was change the location.

We also managed to retrieve a sizable cache of computer disks, which hopefully will reveal a vast network of terrorist contacts and sleeper cell structures, but we all know what’s really on them. Porn. Hot stuff. Muslim women wearing see-through burkas. Beard on veil action.

But now, thank god, this whole thing is over and our troops can come home and we won’t have to take off our shoes at the airport anymore and can turn our attention to hunting down the next biggest threat to democracy: Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia.

Goaded into action by a nattering of numbskulls, Barack Obama finally released the long form of his Certificate of Live Birth from the state of Hawaii, and hopefully threw the last shovel of dirt onto this inception nonsense, but the suspicion is, no, probably not. As we speak, vanquished Birther Bozos are crawling out of the crypt searching for a new nose to wear. First the short form, now the long form, soon they’ll want to see the director’s cut. Then, on a television near you, the mini-series.

Anything to reinforce the strangeness of the first African American president. “Different than you and me.” “Not a real American.” Explains those silly cries of “We’re taking our country back.” Yeah. From the black guy. What they really want is the 1950s and the front of their buses back.

Don’t think this is over. This is not over. Not by a long shot. People believe what they want to believe. Facts be damned. 30% of the GOP still believes Saddam Hussein was responsible for 911 and weapons of mass destruction are currently cruising the streets of Fallujah disguised as ice cream trucks. Driven by men wearing tinfoil hats.

Obama’s actions spurred some on the Right to charge him with orchestrating this whole distraction to keep the country from the real issues. Wow. The perfect somersault of blaming the hit and run victim for walking alone on a sidewalk late at night. “He attacked my bumper with his chest.”

Others, like Newt Gingrich, refuse to be convinced. “There are still questions.” Yeah, and besides, Obama’s citizenship is due to a technicality, because on August 4th, 1961, Hawaii had been a state for less than two years. Maybe the flippo-units will switch tactics and demand proof he’s not a Muslim. And won’t be satisfied until they see a signed and dated parchment from Allah.

The disgrace is, the President was forced to hold a press conference, not to address the reshuffling of his national security team: but rather… where he was born. His exact quote was: “not going to be able to do our jobs if we get distracted by sideshows and carnival barkers.” In response, the main carnival barker, Donald Trump, claimed to be honored for making the president jump through hoops like a trained Pomeranian. Who also would not be eligible to be president.

The Donald is that kid in high school oblivious to the whole class making fun of him, including the teacher. Faced with the very concrete evidence he insisted on viewing, you’d think he’d find a gracious way to back off, but you’d be as wrong as blaze orange camo. Buffalo chip cookies. Cheesecloth mittens.

The Aerodynamic Coif instead upped the ante to question how a guy named Barack Hussein Obama got into Harvard Law and wants to see his college transcripts, which is a really, really sly way of throwing out the “n” word. Surprised he didn’t use “shiftless.”

We need Trump to provide samples of his DNA to prove he’s actually a carbon-based life form. Show us your hairline Captain Carnival Barker. What’s next: a mole count? Will a committee be empanelled to investigate the number of moles on the president’s body? “Where are they and why is he hiding them? And exactly how many of them are shaped like his socialist supervisor, Cuba?”

You got to love The Right. Every single study and poll, every one, shows independents turned off by cultural-values wars; the same way chalk sidewalk drawings dissolve in a thunderstorm. And they try and they try and they try but they just can’t help themselves. Like active moral volcanoes with a bad case of the hiccups, conservatives erupt and spew and god help any innocent bystander that gets in the way of their lava of virtuousness. That includes themselves.

Upon waking, bright pink Post-It notes have got to be stuck to the bathroom mirror: “It’s the economy, stupid.” And for a fleeting moment, folks stick to the script. But all it takes is the merest hint of a whisper of a rumor of suspected aberrant behavior and Boom! All hell breaks loose. Banding together they rain down with exalted anger to smite evildoers. Never mind the deficit, the wages of sin must first be paid.

Oh, they talk about getting the government out of people’s business. But when its bedroom business or women’s body businesses, an infatuation with perceived iniquity overcomes them. Especially businesses into which tab A is not destined for slot B; which could possibly offend some busybody. That’s when their business becomes the business of judging other people’s business. And business is good.

I imagine all 23 potential Republican presidential candidates-cowering at the side of the candidate pool in their red white and blue bathing suits, waiting for spring to turn to summer and the nominating waters to warm up-would rather juggle a dozen flaming marshmallows over a broken crate of alligators on stilts than be nailed down on abortion or gay marriage right now. But deep down, this enforced silence is eating away their innards, because their hungry desire for rapturous conduct burns hot inside as well.

Like junkies fresh out of rehab, the self-righteously righter than right can smell mendacity three states away and being good god-fearing people, go ballistic when the rest of society refuses to twitch into the same twisted noble contortions as they. Then as avenging angels they swoop, sometimes in packs, sometimes plunging solo.

Knowing better, but unable to control his compulsion, Speaker John Boehner (R-$$$) swoopingly interrupted his budget putsch, hiring a law firm to argue on behalf of the Defense of Marriage Act. President Obama declared it unconstitutional and indefensible, so the Speaker is taking it unto himself to ensure equal rights are denied to same sex relationships. Apparently, certain people’s happiness makes him miserable.

Previously, the GOP tried lathering their moral superiority onto the budget bill. That’s when Jon Kyl (R- Wackyville) went on the floor of the Senate to say abortions “are well over 90% of what Planned Parenthood does.” And he was close. Off by 87%. Just a bit outside. Later, Kyl’s office recanted saying “his remark was not intended to be a factual statement.” Of course. Who would ever think it was? After all, he is a known politician.

With no innards left, leaping onto the anti-abortion bandwagon with talons extended, Michele Bachmann called Planned Parenthood the Lenscrafters of abortion, which by all rights allows you to call the Heritage Foundation the Orange Julius of the death penalty. Congressman Bachmann, the Home Depot of ridiculously overwrought indignation. Making the Republican Party itself, the Luigi’s Shoe Repair of self inflicted gunshot wounds to the chest.

It’s way too early to sort out the winners and the losers in the big budget showdown on Capitol Hill the last couple weeks. They’re still extricating bodies from behind the hay bales of the Gunfight at the DC Corral and will be for months. It’ll take even longer to identify the white-hatted good guys from the no-good-rustlers-of-the-public trust. All depends on your point of view. Everybody thinks he’s Wyatt Earp.

Neither the Republicans nor the Democrats got exactly what they wanted which normally indicates a win for the country, but the Tea Party is still madder than hell. The word compromise is not in their vocabulary. Then consider their plans to finance further tax cuts for the rich by laying off Head Start teachers, and apparently neither are the words “community,” “compatible” or “unanimity.”

This ideological strife did prove the perfect opportunity for President Obama to show off his abilities to accommodate, negotiate, placate and facilitate. He’s smoother than a baby’s butt dipped in a polyurethane bath. Like phlegm on Teflon. Flexibility, never his Achilles Heel. Gumption, however, was. The question had less to do with the existence of a backbone, and more with the rigid ingredients in its makeup. The boniness, so to speak. What level of bonacity in his spine. How petrified the vertebrae.

Was it the consistency of a Tupperware dish full of lime Jell-O with carrot shreds forgotten in the back seat of a station wagon in New Mexico on an August afternoon, or made of sterner stuff? The question cries out for the NSF to develop a scale of bone and organ density. On one end you’d have Charlie Sheen’s liver and on the other, Rand Paul’s skull.

Above and astride the fray, the president exhibited unambiguous signs of calcium augmentation signing a bill that calls for budget cuts of 38 billion, 62% less than the symbolic ground of 100 billion the Tea Party staked their tent posts of revolution on last fall. Nevertheless, a figure significantly larger than the progressive wing of his party desired, which can best be measured in multiples of zero..

But if you think the passage of this legislation signals a respite from these budget battles, you’re more misguided than the poor sap trying to finance a new wing of Vegas condos with adjustable mortgages and no money down. The confrontations intensify from here on out. Just like the Broadway production of “Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark,” this struggle was but a preview.

Oh sure, choreography will be tinkered with and some higher-flying rigging secured, and a few minor plot points might change but underneath it’ll be the same old cast mouthing the same tired dialogue. “We are good and right and true and just while they are attempting to destroy the country by killing the elderly with red hot forks to the eyes and blah, blah, blah.”

Next up: raising the national debt ceiling, then a long term budget deal, both of which promise to make this encounter look like a slap fight in a Catholic School girl’s locker room. Got to remember, approaching an election year, any war of words inevitably escalates from conventional into the nuclear exchange variety. Say hello to our old friend, Mutually Assured Destruction; back and tan and rested. As Doc Holliday exits left, Dr. Strangelove moves down stage front.

I want to know. You want to know. The whole world wants to know. What’s the deal with the surprising retiring Republicans? Not age-related retiring as in shawl on the lap watching the 3rd DVD of the 5th season of Matlock with a glass of tepid tea on the side table. Retiring as in coy, reticent, withdrawn. Obviously, we are not speaking of those pesky majority members of the House- demure as an over-caffeinated grizzly on roller skates gallivanting down a fashion runway and yes, that means you Kate Moss.

This discussion specifically concerns the 2012 GOP presidential candidates or more precisely, lack thereof. That is not to say they aren’t busy. Like the haunted topiary maze in “The Shining” the usual suspects can occasionally be spied skulking on the edge of your peripheral vision. Floating trial balloons with fingers in the air to see which way the wind blows. Dipping toes in the water to ascertain the temperature of shark-infested waters. Running position papers up flagpoles to determine which focus groups salute. Waiting for the other shoe to drop while creeping around barefoot playing the Crying Game.

Normally by this time in an election cycle, running against a vulnerable incumbent in a sluggish economy, you’d have about 80 gazillion candidates and their brothers scrambling down and dirty in the mud biting each other’s knees for supremacy in the all important money scrum. This year, not so much. A variation on the old 60s bumper sticker: “What if they threw an election and nobody came?”

The situation has become so dire, NBC canceled a May 2nd GOP Presidential debate due to lack of interest. Not by the viewing audience. That’s a given. The network’s predicament was a lack of participants. A game of political chicken with everybody waiting for someone else to cluck first. And these are some mean mother cluckers.

As if in a recurring bad dream, Newt Gingrich replicated a dodgy feint from yesteryear, calling a press conference to officially announce he may or may not be looking to set up an exploratory committee to talk to some people who might investigate the possibility of him perhaps considering making a run for the Presidency, later on, maybe. Some day. Why? Because America deserves decisive leadership, that’s why.

ABC News compiled a list of 23 potential Republicans who have either talked about or are expected to take a flying leap at the brass monkey ring. 23. That’s two entire football teams with room left over for Mike Huckabee to encourage them from the sidelines strumming “Pardon Me” on the guitar. But not one of the 23 has declared. So, since nature and billionaire blowhards abhor a vacuum, along comes Donald Trump vowing to spend 600 million of his own money seeking the Presidency. Which to you and me would be a nickel.

His plans predictably include running the country the way he would a business. Great. “America: You’re Fired!” Then recruit underpaid immigrants to replace us as citizens. Accelerating the pace. As far as loose cannons go, Trump is a broken pallet of greased wheels on thin ice. The fount of many imponderables. Such as, having proven HE was born in America, what about that thing on his head? And does it require an antidote for when it stings? With armed forces at his disposal how soon before the pre-emptive strike on Rosie O’Donnell?

No one said being President was going to be easy. And no one was right. You get yelled at for doing things and you get yelled at for not doing things. Often both times by the same people. Which is kind of like saying, "even when you agree with us, you’re wrong." That’s a tough hill to climb.

Take Libya. Please. After it became apparent the native uprising against Qaddafi was not going to replicate the successes of Egypt, President Obama got lambasted by Republicans for not immediately leaping tall buildings to help them freedom loving Libyans, like some guy from Texas would have done. Then, from the other end of the same street, the Rip Van Winkle Republican Anti-Interventionists awoke from hibernation and objected to any involvement. Ever. Anywhere. If these folks had their way, they’d take away his passport.

Through a series of delicate negotiations, Barack managed to cobble together an International alliance to enforce a no-fly zone over Libya. Good timing, eh? We finally get most of our boys out of Iraq and boom, up jumps another crisis where we get to carry the democratic load. Superman should have warned us; this superhero thing can get a wee bit tiresome. I guess the deal is, you get used to running two wars, it’s not easy trying to get by on just one. Going to have to face it, we’re addicted to war. Oops. Don’t call it war.

This endeavor, altercation, conflict, campaign, enmity, friendly fracas, (not a crusade) is shaking out differently. At least we don’t have to worry about being accused of ulterior motives since there obviously isn’t any oil in Libya, oh… uh, scratch that. Wait, I got it. One big difference is we have actual allies this time around instead of imaginary friends. And the coup de gras is the Arab League throwing in with us. An inspired consideration when you insist on invading Arab countries.

Of course this skirmish, dispute, clash, carnage, quarrel, grapple in the sand has nothing to do with Islam or oil, its about, um, promoting democracy and getting rid of a bad guy. So if I were Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, I’d watch my back. The man is obviously harboring weapons of mass seduction. Then again, maybe we’ll wait until they find oil in Tuscany.

The oddest thing about this onslaught, strife, contention, assault, incursion, discordant havoc is discovering the biggest problem with having allies is having to work with the allies. Who knew? Not an overly large worry for cowboys with a penchant for going it alone. Should be okay though, since history has shown the French and the English are both easy-going, low-maintenance types. Wonder whatever happened to those shy, retiring Germans? After all, they know North Africa like the back of their hand.

We’re calling it Operation Odyssey Dawn, after the girlfriend of some Marine who hung out too long in bars along the shores of Tripoli, I guess. But even with a name like a ship out of the Carnival Line, getting rid of Qaddafi will be no cruise. The guy is nuttier than a U-Top-It Sundae from Dairy Queen. Gave himself a military rank and chose Colonel. Uses his own people as human shields. His name begins with a Q, its not followed by a U, he plays by rules we don’t even understand. If that don’t spell crazy, time to get a new dictionary.

America dodged the immediate damage of the killer tsunami but a potentially more dangerous phenomenon threatens to wash across our nation. The new political paradigm- concrete intransigency. No quarter asked for- no quarter given. Us versus Them, and Us is me. And whoever likes me at the time. The Colosseum relocated to the Senate. I’m so right and you’re so wrong that anybody who agrees with you should be ambushed, assaulted and abused.

Say what you will about the Liberals, for the most part, they actually believe deep down in their hearts that impoverished kids enrolled in Head Start programs can contribute to society and make the world a better place to live. For all of us. And rich people should pay for that. Conservatives wonder why these kids don’t pull themselves up by their bootstraps the way they did when daddy bequeathed them their first oil well. Life is a race and anybody with a Head Start is cheating. Anybody not part of their family, that is.

These basic attitudes stem from deep-rooted philosophical differences. The Liberal idea is by helping the greater good, it will eventually come back and benefit everyone. While Conservatives believe exactly the opposite. By helping themselves, it will eventually come back and benefit themselves.

And now that politics is a 24/7 media proposition, those positions are calcifying. Conservative voices dominating center stage today can be divided into three groups. The Greedy. The Mean. And the Stupid. They live in a black and white land where compromise equals defeat and discussion means you taking notes while they talk. Liberals can be distilled into three groups as well. The Pompous. The Weak. And the Stupid. Their world is a rainbow of colors where the government provides everyone with that big box of 64 crayons encouraging them to write on the walls. Anybody’s walls.

Liberals want to nurture the brotherhood of man while Conservatives deem this mythical brotherhood just another left wing conspiracy trying to separate them from their money. Conservatives are sincerely of the opinion that they stole all their stuff fair and square, while Liberals think people with too much stuff should give some of their stuff to people who don’t have any stuff. The problem is nobody considers their collection of stuff to be too much.

Liberals want to reform prisoners. Conservatives don’t believe in taking any. Liberals would rather lose honorably than be accused of acting unfairly. As a matter of fact, Liberals are more comfortable losing than they are winning. Conservatives will do whatever it takes to win, including painting their kids’ teachers as the enemy. Not only are they bad losers, they’re bad winners as well.

Another odd thing is the two sides continue to play the game under entirely different narratives. Liberals act like associate producers at a folk fair trying to choreograph the welcoming dance of converging cultures failing to notice the ragged band of Conservatives lighting torches and running headlong towards them up the castle hill armed with pitchforks.

There’s a war going on but only one side seems aware of it. You’d think the mugging that went down in Wisconsin would be the sharp poke in the side necessary to wake Liberals up. But knowing them, they’ll probably be more concerned with strengthening the guardrails on the castle hill road and introducing legislation to reform pitchfork safety standards.

Best be vigilant for an inadvertent head butt as the eyes of the world recoil from that crazed leader, besieged in his own Capital, defying reality while obstinately holding onto a tenuous power and attacking his citizenry through a conflicted security force. Of course I’m talking about Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker. Think a slightly less swarthy Midwestern version of Colonel Qaadafi.

The locals call Madison, Mad Town, and hardly has it ever lived up to that reputation as heartily as in the past month. Following the November sweep of both houses of the legislature, Walker, Lexus Ranger, declared the Badger State’s deficit was due to those dastardly public unions and his so-called "Budget Repair Bill" sought money from their pockets, an end to collective bargaining, placed obstacles in the way of continued accreditation and advocated public spanking as a punishment.

This proposal came the very week after he ushered in $137 million in corporate tax cuts for the state, which is a lot like paying for your quarterly investors luncheon by garnishing the wages of the waiters. Money for the rich, from the middle class, again. Robin Hood’s evil twin must be exhausted.

Dashing rumors of an imminent compromise, Walker, ran an end-around his state’s Democratic Senate exiles, ramming the bill through a tricky parliamentary procedure in a closed-door session, isolating the issues into non-fiscal elements. So, first it was all about the money, but then, about the money- not so much. Unless you count the big national bucks that lie in union busting.

Like a spreading alien virus, this Republican war on workers is waging and raging across the nation. 11 states have pending legislation to strip unions of various rights. Indiana Democratic politicians joined their Wisconsin colleagues seeking political asylum in Illinois. Poor Illinois. Like they don’t have enough politicians sitting around doing nothing.

Wisconsin is the birthplace of the Progressive movement with a long proud history of activism. So, this naked power grab runs the risk of offending ordinary Wisconsinites like a New York Cheddar winning the blue medal at the State Fair. And whose legality is more suspect than heroin in a holding cell.

More paranoid people might smell a conspiracy. Wealthy Wall Street bankers cause an economic meltdown, make obscene profits in the ensuing recession, then convince the populace that everything can simply be fixed through more tax cuts. So they can create jobs. Of course with $5 a gallon gasoline that two-way commute to China is going to be a bitch.

But if you think The Walker Coup means this issue is dead, you’ve obviously been spending too much time toasting the sunset while eating watercress sandwiches on the bridge of your yacht. As is their way, the GOP might once again have overreached and awakened a sleeping giant. Today, we are all Cheeseheads. Or as JFK might have said "Ich bin ein kaasekopf."

All heck is about to break loose. While sanctions and a no-fly zone may be off the table, recalls, retribution and recriminations definitely are. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear the poo-bahs in the upper echelon of the AFL-CIO decide to bestow Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker with its Organizer of the Year Award. Richy Richly deserved.

The whole world holds its breath as we view through splayed fingers the unrest that is the Egyptian uprising. Or as Hosni Mubarak sees it: ten or twenty rabble rousing unemployed slacker agents of the West with too much time on their hands up to no good.

That’s the problem with entrenched dictators: they interact with their people less often than they enter Sinai Peninsula sheep shearing competitions disguised as shepherds’ assistant. The man is so far behind the insurgency curve he probably sees his own running feet in front of him and even that has failed to fill him with any discernible alacrity.

Typically, these ingrained despots try to apply 30 year-old answers to modern problems. With denial being a major arrow in their ancient quiver. Denial on de Nile. Mubarak keeps asking what the pesky agitators want.
"Well, sir, they want you out."
"How about if I replace the Cabinet with different cronies?"
"Sir, sorry, but you don't get it. The people want you gone. A memory. In the archives. Flying down Abdication Street. Walk like an Egyptian, only really really fast. Don't let the door knob hit you in the butt on the way out- gone."
"Wait, I know. A Vice President. We've never had one before. Maybe our former head of intelligence."
"No, sir, seriously, you don't have to stop being President of every country, you just have to stop being President of THIS country. The only time theywant to see your face again is on a coin, with a four digit number to the right of the dash after your birth year."

Along with scary implications for touring mummy exhibits and world energy prices, this incipient revolution raises fears over the future of Facebook.How does a government shut down the entire Internet? Falling into the wrong hands, this information holds the chilling prospect of huge numbers of young people forced to spend much of their free time watching syndicated episodes of Two and a Half Men. The one piece of good news: this summer's Nile River Cruise packages- going for a song.

Further demonstrating a cluelessness best measured in Jersey Shore degrees, the Egyptian President screwed up the order of the Unofficial Despot Rebellion Response Handbook, unleashing a mob of pro-regime protesters before blaming the press for all his problems. Every second year Egyptian Military School cadet knows the first thing you do is blame the media. One thing I've always been curious about, what do pro-regime protesters chant? "Up with Repression!" "Jobs Aren't for Everybody!" "We want Better Torture!"

Pro-regime protesters: a polite way of saying government thugs whose sole purpose is to crack heads at peaceful demonstrations. Or as they're known around here, the FBI. Speaking of us, around whom the whole world revolves, American outcry has been remarkably muted, even though we witnessed the unspeakable horror of seeing Anderson Cooper punched and Katie Couric jostled.

Diplomatically, of course, Obama needs to be careful. His task is to encourage the demonstrators while allowing the Egyptian leader to save face. Fortunately, equivocation is one of our President's strong suits. This guy has straddled so many fences he could build a tree house in a redwood from the splinters inhis butt. A skill Mubarak must now regret, he never bothered to learn.

Once again, in terms of political theater, the President has managed to flummox both critics and angels alike. Reviews of his State of the Union Address have been more mixed than a Kansas Cuisinart stuck in a tornado on puree. Notwithstanding the ritualistic 79 applause breaks by his Geek Chorus, the production could best be described as a work-in-progress. Nowhere near Pulitzer Prize Luncheon territory; but not destined for a trip to Joe Allen’s flop wall either. Think “Tony & Tina’s Wedding” with added intellectual posturing.

Producers of the rival big show in town, “Burning Down the House” immediately dismissed Obama’s script as more radical agit-prop dramaturgy, but most independent scribes saw it as an old-fashioned sports melodrama featuring a beleaguered coach giving a locker room halftime speech invoking the spirit of his old friend Sputnik while exhorting the team to pull together and defeat the villainous adversary, Doctor Deficit. Lesson being, if you’re going to borrow, steal from the classics.

Production values remained high with costumes and sets ably handled, but the choreography was listless and hackneyed. After the huge pre-show publicity push, the cast opening-seat scramble staging seemed silly and superfluous, and as the night wore on, the ensemble’s dance steps deteriorated into a space best described as clumsy and clichéd. “Us good. Him bad.” Yeah. Yeah. Been there. Seen that.

There were fleeting moments of mad genius as the President flashed his trademark Messianic zeal but all momentum visibly fizzled whenever he tap-danced around specifics in wooden numbers that reeked of the fuzzy and familiar:  “The State of the Union is Strong but Could be Stronger,” “Investment is Like Spending Only Better,” and what was surely intended to be the rousing curtain closer, “Win the Future.” Didn’t exactly bring down the house but backers have to be encouraged by the large percentage of audience members humming the tune on the way out and in the days since.

Only registered ogres could deny the overall vaguely uplifting feel of the creaky vehicle. And they did. The FOO, Friends of Ogres, (Republican Party) responded to the blurry optimism with not one but two overly scripted political procedurals, as their rising stars, Paul Ryan and Michele Bachmann, stared variously into and nearby cameras spewing enough doom and gloom to make Arthur Miller look like Neil Simon. Commedia Dell’ Arte with a scythe. King Lear without the happy ending.

On reflection, Obama’s subtextual message still remains more elusive than opening night tickets to “Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark.” A shame to see all that good pre-show buzz so extravagantly wasted. Ultimately, it’s a wash, buddy. Neither a boffo smash, nor a miserable dud or pandering tear-jerker, although one could be spotted sitting behind the President. The whole experience was like kissing your sister or a rainstorm in Hawaii or doing yard work on a good hair day.

It is doubtful in these quarters the show will be able to sprout legs and spawn any road company action. And spin offs and sequels: out of the question, right now. Then again, the Tonys are lurking and prospects for an extended run could hinge on whether that “Win the Future” theme is catchy enough to snatch the show an Original Score nomination. Considering the olden-timey Reaganesque/ Clintonian vibe given off by the whole thing, it’s a virtual lock for Best Revival.

Wishing you all a Very Happy Merry. And no, I’m not falling into that trap. You go out and dance to the beat of whichever winter festival you want to celebrate. Christmas. Hanukah, Kwanza, Saturnalia, Solstice, noon Tuesday, 420, a December date equal to the square root of the number 625. Whatever. And good on ya. As we say in politically correct San Francisco, “May the corpulent bearded one in the scarlet suit smile upon your chosen shrubbery.” Now, inevitably some people are going to find their stockings aren’t quite stuffed with the egregious booty they were expecting or most importantly, believe they deserve. So I’m here to help the under-gifted achieve a certain amount of cathartic closure. As the great philosopher Rodney King once almost said: “can’t we all wear a thong?” So, to insure that certain traditions don’t get washed right out into the ocean like a picnic table on a Malibu hillside, let me offer up my annual scathingly incisive yet curiously refreshing:
WILL DUR$T’$ 2010 XMA$ WI$H LI$T.
For Mel Gibson. A muzzle. Permanent. Steel. Welded with titanium rivets.
For the Economists who insist the recession ended in June of 09. An opportunity to collect 99 weeks of unemployment insurance.
For Charlie Sheen. A date with Lindsay Lohan. Matching ankle bracelets at Dr. Drew’s Celebrity Rehab.
For WikiLeaks Founder Julian Asange. A slip of paper naming whoever leaked details of his sexual assault charges tucked into a dictionary in the fold of the page with the “irony” entry.
For Betty White. 30 more years.
For Ireland. Far fewer reasons to drown their troubles.
For Juan Williams. A prayer rug for his Fox News cubicle.
For the American public. A case of antacid to get through the next two years watching the heartless pummel the spineless cheered on by the clueless.
For Conan O’Brien. Half the on- air excitement he inspired off-air.
For Barack Obama. An electron telescope to focus on jobs. American jobs. Democratic jobs. Obama Administration jobs. His job.
For Mrs. Clarence Thomas. A six pack of Coke.
For Arizona Governor Jan Brewer. A used set of Spanish language cassette tapes.
For the Cast of Jersey Shore. Watches that only measure increments of 15 minutes.
For the Texas Board of Education. A railroad car stuffed full of historical blinders.
For Bill Clinton. A Presidential appointment to the position of Secretary of Secretaries.
For Toyota. A new corporate motto. Because after 4 recalls involving acceleration problems, “Moving Forward” might be a bit too apropos.
For Katy Perry. A bigger bra.
For the Tea Party. Kissable wallets. Because its time to put their money where their mouth is.
For Willie Nelson. A THC patch.
For the TSA. Extensive training to perfect the impromptu prostate exam.
For John Boehner. A deal with Fruit of the Loom to market a line of “Mister Speaker” monogrammed handkerchiefs. And hand towels.
For former BP CEO, Tony Hayward. Now that he has his life back, a reason to live it.
For Medical Science to Study. Dick Cheney’s heart, Joe Biden’s mouth and Rod Blagojevich’s brain.
For New Gingrich, Mitt Romney and the rest of the Republican field taking sidelong glances at 2012. Something on Sarah.

Believe it or not, an entire decade has passed since the turn of the Millennium. 120 months. One tenth of a century. More than 3600 days. How did that happen? Its harder to comprehend than a faded Kazakhstani street sign tagged by Mongolian graffiti. As we are painfully aware, much ugly stuff occurred during the decade, but what with all the mayhem and turmoil, you might think nothing worth laughing about went down. You’d be wrong. I know. I know. I know. “Not another Top Ten List. ” Yes. Another Top Ten List. Hey, how many ends of the decade does one get in a lifetime? Maybe seven, eight, fourteen if you’re lucky. So, deal with it, because thar she blows: a list of the Top Ten Comedic News Stories of the First Decade of the 21st Century. And not a Paris Hilton or Somali pirate sighting among them.

Kerry-Edwards- 04. Worst campaign ever. And that includes France in 39. Who would have thought Democrats would fondly reminisce about the charismatic Gore-Lieberman ticket?

The Clintons. He got 12 million for his memoirs. She got 8 for hers. Not bad for two people, who testified under oath for eight years- they couldn’t remember a single thing.

Economic Bubbles Bursting. Dot com. Energy. Housing. Summed up best by Enron Ethics manual on eBay whose seller described it as being in “mint condition- never used.” That could have been the problem. Sold- $250.

John McCain. Old warhorse finally gets his shot. Then couldn’t remember how many houses he owned. Turns out he had 8. Every time I get 4 houses I trade them in for a hotel.

Political sex scandals. Vitter. Foley. Edwards. Ensign. Sanford. And Spitzer, the NY Governor who flew a hooker from New York to DC, because God knows there aren’t enough hookers in DC. 535 that I can think of, offhand. Put her up at the Mayflower and gave her 4 grand. That’s a liberal. A conservative will try to get it for free in an airport men’s room stall. Demonstrating fiscal responsibility.

Barack Obama. Half-black President demonstrates America ready to be Afro- curious. People still freaking out. “Born in Kenya.” No, he wasn’t. He was born in Honolulu. In a manger.

Weapons of Mass Destruction. President Bush was  misled into thinking Iraq had WMDs because he was provided with faulty intelligence. Yeah, DNA is a bummer. Turns out it wasn’t Iraq with the WMD, it wasn’t Iraq with ties to Al Qaeda: it was Iran. We were so close. Probably just a clerical error.

Dick Cheney. Accidentally shot a guy in the face with a gun and got the victim to apologize. Then again, who among us hasn’t mistaken a 78 year-old lawyer wearing an orange vest for an immense quail?

Sarah Palin. For those of us going cold turkey on George Bush, the former governor of Alaska is like a double dose of methadone.

George W Bush. If Reagan and Quayle had a kid. A Wheel of Fortune President in a Jeopardy world. For 8 wonderful years, he was the Full Employment Act for political comedy. And we welcome him back.

Please be advised: the Top Ten Comedic News Stories of 2010 are not to be confused with the Top Ten Legitimate News Stories of 2010. They are as different as Lasagna and asphalt. Ear wax and linoleum. A lunch wagon sink trap and nuclear lab clean rooms. Toe shoes and track cleats. Christian Science Ministers and health insurance seminars. Sure, sure, there were more serious stories involving death and destruction and devastation o’plenty but we tend to concentrate more on those narratives that offer a break from the tension. That allow  us to view the desolation from the lighter side of the vast dark chasm. Like when Mel Gibson, Charlie Sheen, Elena Kagan and the Chilean miners were disrupted by the Icelandic Volcano from attending the World Cup. A worthy account yes, but alas, not esteemed enough for our list. So here they are, the stories from 2010 that most lent themselves to joshing and kidding and ribbing.

10. Dick Cheney’s 6th heart attack. How does a guy without a heart have 6 heart attacks? It would be like Rod Blagojevich contracting a brain tumor. Cheney is so evil, Hell keeps spitting him back.

9. Barack Obama. True to his word, the 44th President managed to unite the country. Against him. Although, the two sides do view him through different prisms. The right sees him as Malcolm X. The left- Urkel.

8. Christine O’Donnell. Delaware Senatorial candidate claimed she’s not a witch. Then the local Wiccan community denied having anything to do with her. Which probably didn’t lead above the fold on her election eve mailer.

7. California Gubernatorial Candidate Meg Whitman. A Jerry Brown staffer called her a “ho” and she went ballistic. “Its an insult to all women.” Nooooo, we’re pretty sure it was specific to you. Spends more than a seventh of a billion dollars on her campaign and still cuts her hair with a salad shooter. Go figure.

6. Glenn Beck. Attempts to reclaim the civil rights movement by holding a rally on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Because isn’t it about time angry middle aged pudgy white guys got a fair shake from society?

5. Health Care. 2700 pages long. Or 2900. They’re still not sure. Lot of stuff can happen in 200 pages. I’ve read Harry Potter.

4. The TSA’s new search policy. Just direct me to the agent who didn’t volunteer for the gig.

3. Sarah Palin. At Tea Party Convention she criticized Obama for over dependency on a Teleprompter while she had notes written on her hand. Which is a 5th grade teleprompter for people who can’t read fast. Every two weeks there’s something with her. Every two weeks, she erupts. She’s like Republican herpes. And I mean that in a good way.

2. George W Bush’s Autobiography. Decisions Decided by the Deciding Decider. Wherein he talks about how glad he is to be out of Washington. That makes about 310 million of us. Online campaign urges customers to transfer book from Non Fiction to True Crime.

1. BP Oil Spill. Largest pile of toxic sludge to hit American shores since Ann Coulter’s latest book. Brightside: Able to refuel jet ski midtrip.

TOP TEN CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR WALL STREET FAT CATS.
12.04.10

It’s the most… wonderful time… of the year. And the most frantic and anxious and mind numbing and expensive. The rewarding part is my on-going seasonal side job as a lumpy elfin holiday gift consultant, where it is an honor and a privilege to be able to pass along some hot tips for this year’s Christmas shopping lists. None of which involve surplus uranium tailings from sales to the Iranians.

There’s still more than a few of us struggling to climb out of financial holes so deep we’re being tickled by the tendrils of redwood roots, but we’re not that difficult to shop for. Dollar coins. Discount clothing. Used food. Lint covered gum and pennies. Roadkill wrapped in the Sunday Funnies. We are the re- giftable.

It’s the other end of the spectrum that concerns me. The least needy of us. Wall Street is shoveling out record bonuses. Again. What to get the person who can buy anything? Perhaps the gifts you’ve lined up for your investment banker friends won’t be considered up to snuff. Well, I’m here to convince you to let those worries go. After all, it’s the thought that counts. Ha ha ha ha ha ha.

No, seriously. To ease your stress, we here at Durstco have come up with a catalog of prospective Christmas Gifts that any Wall Street Tycoon would be honored to find under their holiday shrubbery. And who knows, maybe in appreciation, he or she will slide you insider status on the newest IPOs. Probably not, but what the hell, here we go with the TOP TEN CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR YOUR WALL STREET BROKER BUDDIES.

10. A peacock. Provides the double benefit of being both the ultimate symbol of excessive extravagance and extremely difficult to care for.

9. A copy of George W Bush’s autobiography because, during the holidays, everyone can use a good laugh.

8. A kidney in an ice chest. Purchased from a poor person. Always good to have one lying around just in case.

7. A Lexus. According to TV, that’s what rich people give each other for the holidays. Don’t forget the big red bow.

6. A get out of jail free card. No, a real Get Out of Jail Free Card. You must know somebody who knows somebody.

5. A Faberge Egg. Only 42 are known to have survived. Go for it. Check out eBay. Or call Meg Whitman direct.

4. A pair of Bernie Madoff’s underwear. Or just frame any old pair of size 36s and say they’re his. Its what he would have done.

3. A signed first edition of Tom Wolfe’s “Bonfire of the Vanities” because nothing else says, “Master of the Universe” quite like it.

2. A US Senator. Oh sure, they probably already have one socked away, but who’s ever thrown out a Senator because they went bad? Not Congress.

1. A soul. Odds are, they’ve sold, misplaced or ruined theirs. Just realize in advance they’ll probably sell, misplace or ruin this one as well.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based humor columnist who frequently tells jokes. Out loud. On purpose. In front of people. Who laugh. Ideally.

Happened to Reagan: 27 seats in 82. To George HW Bush: 31 seats in 1990. Clinton: 54 seats in 1994. Would have happened to George W Bush if Nine Eleven hadn’t gone down the year before. It’s a natural contraction. Democracy’s labor pains. Only the gestation period is a bit longer, the soreness more lingering and felt thousands of miles wider.

Like Newt Gingrich before him, John Boehner will discover that conducting the train is different than throwing bottles at the train. Fortunately for him, it’s a train, not a bicycle and he can run right over the broken glass. Because there’s about 2 billion dollars worth of it from untraceable sources lying on the tracks.

The GOP’s biggest problem might have been inviting the Tea Party into their house. Its one thing to chuckle at the antics of the red headed stepchildren acting up at the backyard barbecue, and another entirely after they move in and you attempt to carry on a conversation with other adults while they persist on waving pitchforks and torches, poking and scorching the ceiling. “Could you keep it down to a dull roar, please? We’re trying to watch ‘Lobbyist Idol’ here.”

Admittedly the number of seats changing hands this time around was a bit high. North of 60. About fifteen percent of the total lower body. Erasing Democratic gains of 06 and 08 combined. But look at the bright side. Ummm. Unh, no. Not that. Wait. Ummm. Okay. Got some. The Democrats can book a smaller banquet room for their Freshman Class Induction Party. No more need to stock up on those 50 pound bags of Blue Dog Chow. Franking costs go way down with shorter Christmas card lists.

You could make a good argument the Tea Party is responsible for throwing one House of Congress into the GOP’s column and another out of it. The wrestler’s wife lost. Christine O’Donnell may not be a witch but neither is she a US Senator. Same with Sharron Angle, except for the witch part. Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid was preordained to lose and to lose bad to any halfway decent opponent. But as luck would have it, he didn’t face one.

The red tide seemed to congeal after hitting the Rockies. California, Oregon and Washington avoided the brunt of the anti- incumbent wave. Most likely due to the fact that the weather is nicer, giving Hope and Change a longer shelf life.

Don’t be distracted by the parties incessantly trading bipartisan air kisses. Like the handshake before the first round of a prize- fight, it’s simply a ritual and nobody expects any true civility. When the Administration says they want to work with Boehner and McConnell, they do. The way a five year old with a magnifying glass wants to work with ants. Same goes for Republicans. Sure, they’re offering up an olive branch now, but be real careful; might just be a painted paralyzed asp with the anesthetic timed to wear off on January 8th.

In a flash, We, the People, have become Helen Keller. Blind. Deaf. And Dumb. With an emphasis on the latter. Because nobody cares. La di dah. Makes no difference where these surreptitious tsunamis of decoy dollars are originating from: religious nut jobs, public service unions, defense contractors or foreign benefactors trailing behind them leaky puddles of nuclear radiated waste. Off shore. Under shore. Paulie Shore. Sho nuff is fine.

This de- reform has rendered us totally incognizant of which profligate special interest group is spending how much money for what candidate or why or when or where it’s given. And our collective response is to care less than a whale about rain. Orwell was right: Unenlightenment is strength. And with it comes the understanding of what it’s like to be a mushroom. Kept in the dark and fed compost. We revel in the delicious bewilderment of knowing influence peddlers are scurrying around shadowy crevasses like cloaked cash cockroaches and the light switch is broke.

What happened was, way back in the bad old days, Nixon committed the cardinal political sin of getting caught abusing campaign funds, so post- Watergate, Congress was shamed into replacing hard money with soft money which slowly turned into liquid money but now the floodgates have opened and that marvelous misty money is morphing into magic money, soon to transform into virtual money until Steve Jobs figures out a way to beam commercials straight into our heads. And if that prospect doesn’t drive you right into downtown Crazy Ville, then you were hitchhiking in its suburbs to begin with.

There are plenty of reasons why patrons would want to remain covert. They’re shy. Afflicted with an unsightly rash. Currently enrolled in the Witness Protection Program. Breaking in a new toupee. Still haven’t recovered from that ghastly spill in Gstaad. Still haven’t recovered from that ghastly spill in the Gulf. But few of those excuses contribute to the public interest.

We are painfully aware that our politicians are, how do I put this delicately, beholden to certain large contributors. A polite way of saying “hookers with the appetites of hippopotamuses in heat.” But now the ante has been raised higher than a giraffe’s ear. More ghost money means larger favors rewarded with a wider roped off space at the public trough forcing the rest of us to crowd around the short rutted end. Knee- pads are destined to become standard issue behind every Congressional desk. If they aren’t already.

The scariest part is, we’re only seeing the tip of the secret donor iceberg and the Ship of State’s wheel has been splintered. If this flood of clouded currency proves successful, there aren’t enough lifeboats in the Pacific Fleet to rescue us from of these perilous waters. So you might want to whip out your shark resistant water wings. Only one thing puzzles me: if ignorance truly is bliss, why ain’t I happier?