A Washington Rebel Regular Preparing for . . . . Company
After I post such items as An Old Bull's Depression, I think to myself that whoever reads these minor missives of mine must think I'm drowning in pig shit as I cry toxic waste, smoking roll-your-owns and drinking stale coffee cooked in a rusty piss pot. That sort of thing. Actually, I am optimistic -- long term. My problem is that I am mourning.
I am mourning a country I once knew where men had pride and lived up to the best in themselves, instead of sitting around making smarmy little remarks so they can pretend they're smart. A man who thinks he's already arrived is a boy. Just like the one sleeping in the White House. He's proved nothing yet, save his vanity. And real live Americans think this is admirable. It's nauseating.
I am mourning a country that was once proud of its Western heritage, and whose collective heart beat with pride for its duty as stewards. The measure of intellect now is folks like Ward Churchill, Jimmy Carter, and Michael Moore.
A press that practices journalism? Nah. A duplicitous cabal of cackling lightweights.
Great Ideas at the University? Nope. Apologies for disonant bumper stickers sported by gnarly Marxist professors with no balls, and no record of real achievement.
In sum, I mourn for the Hell my country must pay for before it can once again earn the right to say "I am American", without sounding like a chump.
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