Zombies, Republicans and Other FRightwing Plagues of the Night

I can’t yet determine whether Florida Republican Gubernatorial candidate Rick Scott is Dr. Frankenstein or the monster he created. Put a doctor’s smock on him and the guy is downright ghoulish. Little Willy-Billy McCollum could play his go-fer/yes-sir flack of an assistant. “It lives! It lives,” scream both candidates! Of their political campaigns.

Before I dissect the dead, I’ve a Hot Arts Tip #3625. Run to your computer and order “MINGUS AH UM” by Charles Mingus. Recorded on Columbia Records in 1959, this jazz album will blow you away. From beginning to end this music does not disappoint. It rocks. It’s soulful. It’s toe-tapping melodic. It’s a must hear. As is WUCF, 89.9 FM. Best Jazz station in America and it’s right here in ol’ O-Town! Get Mingus. Get 89.9!

Now back to the living dead. I once talked with a woman at a parteee who owned-up to voting for George W. Bush. Twice. It was the twice part that stopped the conversation. Everyone looked at her as if she had just soiled her pants. The “stank” was staggering. It’s the type of situation where, out of embarrassment for the person, you politely look away.

Not me! I said, “Hmmm? I’m a forgiving person. While I’d sooner have voted for a dead dog as George Bush, I’ll give-ya one mistake. What was it about his first term, however, that had you giving him another crack at it?”

This gal should have been able to read the tea-leaves of the room. But she was one of those big-haired, self-righteous Republican women (so very popular in Texas and Floreeeda. Southern belles, don’t-cha see.) who troth their devotion to gawd in the same breath as trashing the grubby poor. You know, those godless, abortion-spouting, mind-your-own-business pacifists, those tree-hugging leftists who see a legitimate role for government.

She fluttered her mascara-ladened lashes just as her eyes rolled to the back of her head. She stuttered out some incomprehensible gibberish (simplistic rightwing banality) and abruptly excused herself to find her hubby. I was tempted to follow her just to see what kind of a man marries such an unthinking airbiscuit. But I already knew what kind.

Primarily, aging white-boys. Soft around the middle, thus matching their brains. Not the Tea-Party kind of daftness. HEAVENS NO! Those unwashed masses!! Hoi polloi! No, the plaid-panted, country-club Republican chap who is torn between voting for Ricky Frankenstein or his doppelganger of an assistant, Little Willy McCollum.

Conflicted. If only, if only we had lower taxes and less government regulation, Florida might then rival the economic miracle known as Mississippi or Bangladesh. If only. It’s those treacherous brown-skinned aliens. They’re destroying America. They’re stealing our jobs! Card check’um! I expect any day now that one of the Republican gubernatorial dynamic-duo to call for mandatory rectal exams for all of Floreeeda’s little brown people! Why not? Can we be toooo safe? What are “you” hiding?

And as Frankenstein snaps on his rubber gloves, Little Willy tells the cowering immigrant, “This von’t hurt ze bit. Ve vant to know if you are von of us.”

This is not an election to sit out. Darkness approaches.