Lechery, lechery, still wars and lechery, nothing else holds fashion
March 17, 2016 4 Comments
So, yesterday I heard from several places, that the GOPe will, if we end up in a brokered convention, attempt to foist somebody like Paul Ryan on us. Frankly, I don’t think Ryan would be all that bad a President, but that’s not the problem. The problem is that if the party is going to select who they damned pleased, why are we screwing around with the sham of the primary system?
The other problem is that it will elect Clinton. I’m no fan of Donald Trump, as all here know, but if he wins or comes close, he wins. I suspect Trump’s too lazy to be as bad a president as he sounds like he could be, and he’ll end up relying overmuch on his advisers, just as Obama has. So if he ends up with reasonable advisers, it might be OK. All that goes for Cruz as well, except that I think he’d be an outstanding president, advisers, or no advisers.
In any case, if the party pulls off this coup, and by the rules, I think it legal, it will pretty much destroy the party. I think the GOPe knows that, perhaps dimly, and they think it more important to ally with the Democrats to protect their rice bowl. For those of us who are proponents of American exceptionalism through the Constitution, this debacle will be horrible, pretty much the end of the America which we love.
A commenter over at Ace’s said it well.
It doesn’t give a shit if it loses to a Democrat because all their money making ability is retained. The GOP is an enterprise – at this stage a criminal enterprise – that is interested only in one thing: keeping itself and its members fat, happy and paid.
Winning an election is almost a secondary thing.
But keeping those who would take away its influence, power and MONEY is job #1.
The Democrats want to destroy the country for ideological reasons. The GOP is perhaps more contemptible because they want to make money off of it.
I really loathe them.
That’s where I am this morning.
THE strength of twice three thousand horse
That seeks the single goal;
The line that holds the rending course,
The hate that swings the whole:
The stripped hulls, slinking through the gloom,
At gaze and gone again —
The Brides of Death that wait the groom —
The Choosers of the Slain.
Offshore where sea and skyline blend
In rain, the daylight dies;
The sullen, shouldering swells attend
Night and our sacrifice.
Adown the stricken capes no flare–
No mark on spit or bar,- —
Girdled and desperate we dare
The blindfold game of war.
Nearer the up-flung beams that spell
The council of our foes;
Clearer the barking guns that tell
Their scattered flank to close.
Sheer to the trap they crowd their way
From ports for this unbarred.
Quiet, and count our laden prey,
The convoy and her guard!
On shoal with scarce a foot below,
Where rock and islet throng,
Hidden and hushed we watch them throw
Their anxious lights along.
Not here, not here your danger lies
(Stare hard, 0 hooded eyne!)
Save where the dazed rock-pigeons rise
The lit cliffs give no sign.
Therefore – to break the rest ye seek,
The Narrow Seas to clear
Hark to the siren’s whimpering shriek
The driven death is here!
Look to your van a league away, –
What midnight terror stays
The bulk that checks against the spray
Her crackling tops ablaze?
Hit, and hard hit! The blow went home,
The muffled, knocking stroke
The steam that overruns the foam-
The foam that thins to smoke-
The smoke that clokes the deep aboil –
The deep that chokes her throes
Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil,
The lukewarm whirlpools close!
A shadow down the sickened wave
Long since her slayer fled:
But hear their chattering quick-fires rave
Astern, abeam, ahead!
Panic that shells the drifting spar
– Loud waste with none to check-
Mad fear that rakes a scornful star
Or sweeps a consort’s deck.
Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick,
Now ere their wits they find,
Lay in and lance them to the quick–
Our gallied whales are blind!
Good luck to those that see the end,
Good-bye to those that drown–
For each his chance as chance shall send–
And God for all Shut down!
The strength of twice three thousand horse
That serve the one command;
The hand that heaves the headlong force,
The hate that backs the hand:
The doom-bolt in the darkness freed,
The mine that splits the main;
The white-hot wake, the ‘wildering speed–
The Choosers of the Slain!