Home | Politics | Off The Floor: When Bureaucrats Attack!

Off The Floor: When Bureaucrats Attack!


Prelude To The Pooch Screw, Epilogue Of Govn't Bungle

"We could've had it all...
But you played it
You played it
You played it
You played it to the beat."-from "Rolling in the Deep" by Adele

This song played a lot on the FM in the days and even hours leading up to the first government kibosh in fifteen years. It was eerily reminiscent of the opening to the Stones' "Gimme Shelter" and every bit as bleak and socially relevant. When Jagger and the gang released Let It Bleed at the end of 1969, airstrikes and truck-born rockets rendered Libyan rebels stagnant and forced Gaddafi (or however we were spelling his name in those days) to begrudgingly declare a stalemate between battleground Libya and rubble-rousers from NATO. America reigned triumphant, for the moment, but efforts to ground Libya into dust hastened as the years rolled by.

Realizing the parallel between the '69 subjugation attempts on Libya and the sneak attack launched on Gaddafi in recent weeks, it is odd to hear people talking of an impending Armageddon, viewing the natural disaster in Japan and the fusillades in Libya as a sign of the End Times. If the Mayans are at all on to something about the Apocalypse, it isn't any late-breaking news...not on the evidence culled from this flashback to the Omega of the Sixties. This is a war we've been waging for hundreds of years and it's a war against ourselves, a war against all mankind.

"We could've had it all, but we played it." And that is how we are systematically self-destructing. As Melvin R. Laird put it, "A politician would do well to learn that he has to live with his conscience longer than he does with his constituents." 


Stockbrokers are committing hara-kiri on the Exchange floor by way of deep and deliberate paper cuts over their main veins. Up and down, not side-to-side. Inbound tourists are diving into cruise ship "screws" in schools of sixty or more. Blue collar workers in New York have ransacked filling stations and are breaking into Indian reservation smoke shops, practicing civil disobedience sit-ins and refusing to leave Tribal land until they've smoked off every last carton. IRS employees have taken to auditing themselves just to keep their Delirium Tremens-seized fingers busy while they wait for verdicts in extortion lawsuits they've filed against their own children. Soldiers occupying dissident territories are firing make-believe weapons at baffled terrorists who feel so bad for the ill-equipped Infidels that they hurl bottles of heroin-spiked H2O at their camo tents.

"This is not halal," they say. "America hasn't slit its own throat like the humanitarian Muslim. Its government has sent its citizenry to the slaughterhouse to give itself the Sledge. This is head cheese from here on out. Hardcore Halam."

The real work is before us now, and it's all because of partisan bullshit. Bedlam has rocked the bedrock fabric of the Capitalist Republic, as the federal government of Uncle Sam bottomed out and broke down right beneath the feet of the bleating bureaucratic hyenas who caused its collapse.

I had been watching it on CSPAN channels 1-3 as it disintegrated, receiving the stark news...2038 will it be?...and my chest seized up, my throat closed in and my bloodshot blues welled up as I contemplated killing my television set. "No spending bill in place." And the ticker: "Senate works to complete small business bill."

Senate Majority Leader Reid says it's a "non-starter," referring to the initial bill proferred by Republicans on the floor. They were all non-starters or non-enders, it seemed, each flagrant, festering necktie armchair bureaucrat bitching bloody murder and leaping on their thirty minutes during Quorum Call, to dominate the Senate and H.O.R. floor(s) with their partisan bones of contention. "No resolution in sight? Hell, might as well air my true grievances!"

Republican Senator Ragga Muffin prattled on like Porky Pig on CSPAN 2, eyes soggy and stoned for sleep, face flush from barbiturate abuse. "Abba deeba duh duh deeba renewables en eh adeepuh deepit uh solar eh fossil fuels uh we need all dabba duh eh to be to be to be independent eh to run this machine we call America!"

It was, he said, all the Democrats' fault. "They started it!" he might as well have crowed to whatever proctor might pull his pricked ears from the gambling pools of the Capitol rubber room. "A majority of Dems would not allow filibusters!"

Rep. Steve Pearce called the Dems "our friends across the aisle," which really meant the well-dressed and well-spoken nancy boys at the ass end of the sand box.

Draconian cuts were alluded to, and nobody felt good about making them. The mere suggestion of fiscal responsibility had House Speaker John Boehner blubbering like it was his time of the month. "They started it! They started it!"

Oh, Ms. Crab Apple! Why can't the other boys play nice?

Senator Menendez insisted that they've cut $10 billion in spending and thirty-three federal programs have been quashed, while Rep. Pearce stood slouched in the House of Representatives beside a ghastly diagram showing devastating representations of why we're becoming dissolute. The diagram illustrated $3.5 trillion in big government spending, $2.2 tril as our income of accumulated taxes to government, and an overflowing septic tank as the cumulative debt we've amassed and will be amassing if something's not curbed in the next six months.

To add equivocation to blind ire, the figures on Pearce's oaktag presentation were culled from Kotlikoff, a Boston U economics professor whose Bizarro World backwards-in-time flux-capacitor concept of calculating debt was first laid out on the Bloomberg BP wire—the work of a John Birch Society member lost in the time-space continuum.

$1.3 trillion this year alone, more than we bring in, and $15 trillion in debt—which would take "seven years," according to Pearce, for us to get out from inside the hole—and a supposed $202 trillion not acknowledged, on record, by any government websites.

Oddly enough it was Pearce who rather reverently and, clearly, inadvertently sullied his old chum Ronald Reagan's memory by recounting Bonzo's notion to escalate Soviet's expenditures as a means of causing the Union's collapse. Pearce's eyes brightened and the smile of a stroke victim cut across his flaky face as he explained that the Obama Administration had effectively done to its own currency what the Monkey Man said he had done to the value of the ruble.

When his half-hour was up no conclusion was reached and he vanished into thin air like Frank Booth screaming, "I'll fuck anything that moves!" Cue Roy Orbison.

We're all crying now and if the upper castes are not, it's only because they are afraid that the Federal Reserve will finally stop printing money and then they will have nothing suitable on which to dry their jaundiced eyes.

"A forensic audit of the government," was the best Pearce had mustered. "Do away with things that don't make sense." And it was a darn fine idea, coming as it did after NY Mayor Michael Bloomberg's dumping of hundreds of thousands of his hard-earned dollars on radio advertising for his budget plan, and Obama's own skipping town to get some skin from Tawana Brawley's slick-backed vindicator Al Sharpton. But by this point in the forum nobody was listening to anything more than their own muttering grumbles. The great yawn had overtaken the floor like a wave at a sporting stadium.

"What does abortion or climate change have to do with keeping government running?!" Dem Senator Mark Udall shouted at one point, when the pressure finally matched the absurdity dollar-for-dollar. Nobody said a word and the point he was making was lost on each subsequent speaker. Like the awesomely erudite Dem. Jesse Jackson, Jr., whose oratorical powers were rivaled only by his insistence on using the thirty-minute allotment as a TV spot to plug his pre-9/11 book about being a prosperous nation

Despite this unabashed self-advertising Jackson was, nevertheless, one of few speakers who sounded composed. Alas, his only pragmatic thoughts to contribute to the national conversation consisted of quotes from old, dead white men. "If we're to be receptive to the citizens' needs, the balance of power..."--Woodrow Wilson.

Jackson said we can change our by-laws and amend the Constitution, to better our nation. Kind of like the last Bush Administration said we would do the very same thing by taking a buzzsaw to the Constitution with their Patriot Act(s, 1 & 2). And, indeed, it's the same thing the current administration seems to be trying to do with their classified brief of April 1st...no more color coordination...limited dissemination of known homeland attack threats to the general public. Just yank it into submission like it was Stretch Armstrong. Ya remember Stretch Armstrong, don'tcha? The doll whose arms extended like extra-wide Laffy Taffy?...but if you tugged on them too hard they snapped back like rubber bands and started weeping what looked and smelled like alien cum. If you pull on it like Stretch Armstrong, you're sure to bust something up. And then comes the leakage. 

But more imperative than adding additional elasticity to our Fundamental Freedom Scroll was Jackson's need to play the race card, evoking Honest Abe and civil rights entirely out of context. The entire conversation, among all parties and persons, emerged as a free-for-all for both parties to voice their individual agendas, agendas that have little bearing on fiscal responsibility.

Jackson disappeared like a ninja once Amazon orders for his bargain bin book had reached a sufficient sales ceiling. A puff of smoke and then the floor was clear. Switch to mezzanine cam so hungry Americans can stare at the veritable pulpit for fifteen minutes. 

Udall was still at it back on Channel 77, though, shadowboxing and jowl-jousting with the best of them in one last valiant attempt at turning the room around on what had been an all-day go-nowhere slug fest between the Two Parties. 

"We can't afford a government shutdown!" he howled. "What propelled me to the Senate was a willingness to work across bipartisan lines!" We didn't settle the Old West, he said, by hatin' but by participatin.' That's what he was driving at, in so many words. We did it by banding together, "regardless of ideologies."

Many of these monstrosities of wasted flesh had claimed to stride along the party-line tightrope, but Udall was the only one with a face so dour you could almost take his words at some value. Still the berserkers brayed on and nary an inch was conceded by the Conservatives or the Liberals either way.

"Interest rates will spike because of a shutdown," sundry specialists admonished. Goldman Sachs predicted a meltdown that might just make the name Goldman Sachs irrelevant to future editions of the history books. 

In the end, Udall's claim that the Republicans favored acrimony and combativeness (that would further slow the economy) did nothing but cast the Dems in the same mold they'd been mud-wrapped in for decades—the icon or effigy of the Human Vagina, a Party of puny, knee-jerk pussies who like to preen about Freedom of Speech while insisting on P.C. language, who like to defend our constitutional rights while shitting on America's Second Amendment, and who haven't been demonstrative in kicking ass since before Jack's dome got mutilated at the Motorcade. This was what Boehner must have thought, at least, and it was certainly the consensus among Republican reps on the House floor. Indeed, it was the rudimentary argument for their refusal to cower.

Reduction of our deficit was never agreed upon, and the top dogs slipped on their bathrobes and bedroom slippers as soon as the clock struck 12. For his part, the president didn't look as chipper as he had when yucking it up with the lye-headed reverend, and he did well to warn of the ramifications early on. "Companies don't like uncertainty," he said. "And if they start seeing that suddenly we may have a shutdown of our government, that could halt momentum right when we need to build it up—all because of politics."

Of course it's that disdain for politics that will, in part, lose Barack his boon for being elected to a Second Term. But the genuine bitch slap—the epitaph written against progress—began later when it was announced that Obama, Boehner and Reid had fastened their sleeping masks and instructed their aides to stay on and burn the midnight oil in their stead, leaving the pathetic weemers to duke it out in spite of a public allegation that "the differences had been narrowed in a pair of White House meetings during the day." (Newsday, April 8th, 2011)

"I expect an answer in the morning," Barack intoned like a stern father before turning on his heels and jogging to the presidential bedroom. No night lights for your lot! Elvis has left the briefing room and the White House custodial staff breezed in with fresh pajama bottoms for all the aides who had just lost ballast out of their bladders.

Morning came and went and now here we are. Buy out. Sell low. Quit while you've got bread. Guard your golden lockets with any armaments that haven't been appropriated by Grey Eminence. Fasten your helmet. We're in for the rocket's red glare.

SHARE: DIGG Add to Facebook Add To Any Service! Reddit this
All Comments require admin approval.
  • email Email to a friend
  • print Print version