Cutting to the crux of one of his own favorite works, the late John Lennon observed that, should one find oneself downing (within earshot of others), one would not evince such politesse as ‘Excuse me, sir, but if it’s no great bother, could you see your way clear to throw me a life preserver, or perchance even a rope?’
One would shout “HELP!”
In the political arena, Dems have preferred prolix, painstaking, weighed-and-sifted polysyllables. Trouble is, they may not play well in Peoria. On the other hand, wielding no evidence and boatloads of such dim bunk as “STOP THE STEAL,” Donald Trump’s cult already has come close to swiping our country’s vote-legitimized governance.
While wonky donkeys bray high-toned, high-minded business-as-usual, the 80-ton Godzilla in the Rotunda raves on. Fact is, we’ve reached the second anniversary of Trump’s call for his troop to converge on DC and then go “wild” on 1/6/21. To this day, he remains not just unindicted, but unrestrained.
That matters. In March, 2022, in Florence, South Carolina, he told his forces to prepare to “lay down their very lives” for his causes. This month, he’s painted J6 a false flag fandango- then effectively told his faithful to “go after” the libs who, in his fraught fib, roiled the Ellipse to pay him homage, then raided the Capitol to try to kill their own kind (and to keep him in office).
Better late than never, let’s fathom how slow Dems have been to grasp the undead threat at hand. Having failed to read the original writing on the wall (in blood-red caps), they need to pick up the slack at warp speed.
Here’s the thing. They’ve given Trump and company the benefit of the doubt where none has existed. By September, 2020, dread designs were breathtakingly obvious (and widely ignored). At a rally that month, Trump called police violence against peaceable reporters “the most beautiful thing.” While debating Biden, he implicitly allied himself with domestic terror militias. Most telling of all, he effectively vowed to “get rid of the ballots” (from Election Day, then six weeks hence) that might not suit him.
By the time we un-bite our tongues and un-mince our words, our lungs may fill with brine. Our ship of state may sleep with the fishes. And we may be beyond help.