Two hoodlums strolled into the Senate this weak and shot Democracy in the chest. She’s an old girl, and already ailing, so her chances of survival are slim without the very best medical care. But Democracy doesn’t have any money, so what kind of care will she get in the United States? She’s dying in front of us on national television, while Mitt and Lisa leave for comfy beds.
Amy has been trying to staunch the blood while Chuck frantically pleads with 911 to get an ambulance over to the Capitol, but it doesn’t look good. All the ambulances are busy fetching misinformation victims who’ve contracted covid and hauling them to the overworked and understaffed emergency rooms. Even if we get Democracy to surgery what are the chances a competent doctor will work on her? After all, she’s indigent, and all the good surgeons are out-of-network for her.
That’s why I’m here in the bar, tugging on the sleeve of my decrepit step-father, Justice, trying to get him to come to the theater and do one more operation. He isn’t happy to see his ugly step-son, either.
And I have no real confidence Democracy will get to the operating theater before it’s too late. But I’m at wit’s end. In his heyday, this guy could stitch you up and walk you out the door. He’s Democracy’s only real hope. If this doesn’t work, Democracy will die.
Death is final.
“Can’t do it, boy,” he tells me. “See these hands?”
He holds out his emaciated arms, and his fingers vibrate in front of me.
“Bartender, bring coffee.”
The bartender moves with all the speed you’d expect of a man about to lose his best customer. His tips depend on keeping Justice on a bar stool, slugging down shots of single malt. Do I really think this system of co-dependence between a sick populace and a sick government will change, even long enough to keep one old woman alive?
“Look, you old fool. One of two things. Either you sober up, quick, and do your job, or I’m going to sock you so hard you won’t leave this bar under your own power. Got the picture, Dad?”
He was never pleased with me growing up. “Let me tell you the facts of life, kid.” Always an excuse. Always some loophole, where the bad guy got away. One cynical explanation after another to cover up his weakness. “You can’t fight the system."
Who is responsible for the system? Who controls it?
I don’t. But even though people with obscene piles of cash run the system, I can still give it a good, hard punch in the gut.
I’d love to see statesmen (we could also call them stateswomen, since this is a modern world) fix the problem. I’d love to see politicians rise above their roots and blossom like the lotus flower. But that would require enlightenment, and it’s a mucky world today.
So, I’m going to start with dear old Dad, Justice. It’s been years since this guy stood up and did a stand up job for us. But I want him back in the game. If the Senate is so stuck up with their rules that they can’t move legislation, too bad for them, but there’s an alternative.
If we can get him sobered up and moving, then he might just put some justice back in our system of elections.
This is the first in a series on the Department of Justice and its role in preserving Democracy. Expect more later this week.