Party of Ideas and What-not
Today's Washington Post:
Rove Outlines Battle Plan for 2006 Elections: “Fighting terrorism, cutting taxes are central issues in Republican strategy to appeal to voters.”
I mean, gosh. Just thinking of the effort that must have gone into crafting this finely honed battle plan. The sleepless nights, the piles of crumpled papers ringing the wastebasket, the candles burned down to waxy stumps. The sweat and determination of the Svengali of our generation, soaking his nightclothes, until one morning he emerges triumphantly from his bedchamber, the bags ringing his eyes not dimming the gleam of triumph when he shouts: "By Jove, I’ve got it!"
Around his bedchamber door crowd the chambermaids, the attendants, the eager interns throwing elbows to edge closer. After the hushed silence, Rove flicks back the fluffy ball of his dangling nightcap, parts his fleshy lips, the crowd leans ever closer as if drawn in by his inhaled breath, he raises one trembling, stumpy finger and lets loose the fruits of his unfathomable mind:
“Taxes and terrorism!”
The chambermaids faint on the spot, the interns high-five, and Rove, satisfied, retreats into his bedchamber to rest his weary mind and gather the strength to summon, incredibly, yet a third ingenious plank in his party’s strategy: “The gays are coming, the gays are coming!”
You really must hand it to the guy.
Rove Outlines Battle Plan for 2006 Elections: “Fighting terrorism, cutting taxes are central issues in Republican strategy to appeal to voters.”
I mean, gosh. Just thinking of the effort that must have gone into crafting this finely honed battle plan. The sleepless nights, the piles of crumpled papers ringing the wastebasket, the candles burned down to waxy stumps. The sweat and determination of the Svengali of our generation, soaking his nightclothes, until one morning he emerges triumphantly from his bedchamber, the bags ringing his eyes not dimming the gleam of triumph when he shouts: "By Jove, I’ve got it!"
Around his bedchamber door crowd the chambermaids, the attendants, the eager interns throwing elbows to edge closer. After the hushed silence, Rove flicks back the fluffy ball of his dangling nightcap, parts his fleshy lips, the crowd leans ever closer as if drawn in by his inhaled breath, he raises one trembling, stumpy finger and lets loose the fruits of his unfathomable mind:
“Taxes and terrorism!”
The chambermaids faint on the spot, the interns high-five, and Rove, satisfied, retreats into his bedchamber to rest his weary mind and gather the strength to summon, incredibly, yet a third ingenious plank in his party’s strategy: “The gays are coming, the gays are coming!”
You really must hand it to the guy.
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