Diary

Time to Come Together?

My brother and sister conservatives, is it not time to come together?  To unify around the values we share?

As the soft strains of piano drifty by, I hear the heavy metal grinding coming over the hill.  The answer to this question is clear. Nooooooooooo! scream the wailing guitars.

Then what is it time for?  The voice is clear, and severe as it echoes out of the war fog shrouded hill.

It is time for some facts to be told whose worth is more than lobbyists’ gold. On to a stage, just fresh shown by the winds of history blowing back the fogs of ignorance, a great guitar hero comes, bearing with him the three-legged chair of Conservatism.  Will he sit on it?  Will the leg of Socon, and Fiscon, and Milcon accomodate and compromise with one another, to hold him up?

A deep breath is heard from the onlookers as the guitar hero ventures to the front edge of the stage.  He raises the chair above his  head, and laughing maniacally, he smashes it at his feet.

“This is a lie-e-e-e!” He sings out over the sudden gasp, his voice like violin string on fire.

“I am a man, a Conservative Man./I stand for Right/I stand for Life/Take my gun, and I’ll kick your can/Lower my tax or feel the rage of my sax/I stand for one wife/I stand for all that is true and bright in our history, and I measure by the Holy Word/And if you don’t like it, I don’t care, for haven’t you heard?/I’m a Conservative Man.

He ushered the band on to the stand, and all were like him, bold, and brave, and beautiful. Oh, there were one or two groupies, lesser sorts, a Libertarian there to carry the spare copies of the Hayek Songbook (because every band member already had one), and a Superhawk bird hopped about the stage, but he too was vastly outnumbered by the band, and bessides the band agreed with him when he was Conservative.

So we saw that the Socons were the Base, I mean the Band, and that it rocked mightily. And we saw that the largely inconsequential wings were the Fiscons and the Superhawks.  But it was not so, for there comes a Chihuahua, growling, furious, frothering at the mouth, an dit attacks a cable used by one of the band.  And a guitar is dimmed. Tragedy strikes.  A pure beautiful conservative voice is shut down, a pall falls on the whole land.

“I said, by George, I want a truce on the social issues. Can’t you socons just sit down and shut up! You’re scaring the Independents.” And thus the Chihuahua spake, and great was the marvelling, but not that he spoke.  But that he spoke English as everyone knew Chihuahuas spoke Spanish ‘Yo quiero Taco Bell?’, and then even more at the silliness that it spake.

For even now, out on the darkened plain, there were coming Independents.  They knew something was wrong, they knew the nation needed to be fixed, and here, here was competence and enthusiasm, a gift of the old American can-do spirit in the Band Upon the Hill.  Now some few turned aside when they heard the Chihuahua yap, but most ignored it, and the song played on.

For what is needed is an enthused Band which then draws in the Moderates.  Anything that makes the Band dispirited must be considered with extreme skepticism.

And so the Chihuahuas in their dozens gathered together even as the Bandplace filled with tens of thousands.  And the running dog lackeys of the imperialists began to bark a peculiar call…you…cannot….legislate….morality.  Which was of course, nonsense.

And then the summoned came out of their graves. Cold, icy figures, with pale, ancient skins.  They had once been human, but the winds that sweep the Beltway take away humanity and leave behind something colder, older, and more indifferent, yet keener behind.

“We hatez youz.” The dogs growled.

“We knoooooooow.” The ancient undead, who pretended to life as t hey pretended to Republicanism, spoke in eerie unison. “But youooo hate the Socons more. How much of your liberty will you swear over to us, the Legions of the Undead, in exchange for another article attacking the socons, and trying to get them to sit in the back of teh bus where we both feel they belong?”

The negotiations were quickly completed.  It was a deal that had been made many times before by both sides.  And then as the undead sorcerors spoke the dread words, rain, cold, chilling, weary-making fell from the air.  The sorcerors had to be careful.  Too much, and the army of the West they summoned every electoral year would be fatally weakened, and too little and the Army might start thinking for itself.  They were grateful to the chihuahuas distantly. Without them, this could never work.  America would have freed itself without the Libertarians attacing Socons.

The rain fell, and the chihuahuas came back and started telling everyone to go home. Can’t play electric guitar in the rain. 

But then the Guitar Hero strode forth, rivers of sweat, tears, and cold rain coursing down his face.  He asked for some help, and this time, the Liberterian groupie ignored his chihuahua friends, and leapt up to hold a tarp over the Guitar Hero’s head, and more importantly his guitar.

And then the Guitar Hero began to play.  He played a song of never surrender, never give up, we will be free.

We Will Be Free!  The crowd chanted back, a steely determination in its voice.

And in the dark and the rain, undead sorcerors stopped their words of power, and heard what they had feared to here for decades, an unleashed Socon, a Conservative Without Fear.  The man who would stand for Life and against Taxes, and for Concealed Carry, and against Amnesty, and would smile ever so softly before he told a dictator ‘that’s enough, right there.’  The man who could bend a cost curve with his biceps, and punch out a hippie from across the country.  He was here, in the thousands, and the RINOs fled back to the Country Clubs and got themselves good and drunk on Cosmopolitans to try to wipe out the horror of it all.

And then, it was time to come together, all together, under the Banner of Full Blooded Conservatism.

My brother and sister conservatives, is it not time to come together?  To unify around the values we share?

As the soft strains of piano drifty by, I hear the heavy metal grinding coming over the hill.  The answer to this question is clear. Nooooooooooo! scream the wailing guitars.

Then what is it time for?  The voice is clear, and severe as it echoes out of the war fog shrouded hill.

It is time for some facts to be told whose worth is more than lobbyists’ gold. On to a stage, just fresh shown by the winds of history blowing back the fogs of ignorance, a great guitar hero comes, bearing with him the three-legged chair of Conservatism.  Will he sit on it?  Will the leg of Socon, and Fiscon, and Milcon accomodate and compromise with one another, to hold him up?

A deep breath is heard from the onlookers as the guitar hero ventures to the front edge of the stage.  He raises the chair above his  head, and laughing maniacally, he smashes it at his feet.

“This is a lie-e-e-e!” He sings out over the sudden gasp, his voice like violin string on fire.

“I am a man, a Conservative Man./I stand for Right/I stand for Life/Take my gun, and I’ll kick your can/Lower my tax or feel the rage of my sax/I stand for one wife/I stand for all that is true and bright in our history, and in the Holy Word/And if you don’t like it, I don’t care, for haven’t you heard?/I’m a Conservative Man.

He ushered the band on to the stand, and all were like him, bold, and brave, and beautiful. Oh, there were one or two groupies, lesser sorts, a Libertarian there to carry the spare copies of the Hayek Songbook (because every band member already had one), and a Superhawk bird hopped about the stage, but he too was vastly outnumbered by the band, and bessides the band agreed with him when he was Conservative.

So we saw that the Socons were the Base, I mean the Band, and that it rocked mightily. And we saw that the largely inconsequential wings were the Fiscons and the Superhawks.  But it was not so, for there comes a Chihuahua, growling, furious, frothering at the mouth, an dit attacks a cable used by one of the band.  And a guitar is dimmed. Tragedy strikes.  A pure beautiful conservative voice is shut down, a pall falls on the whole land.

“I said, by George, I want a truce on the social issues. Can’t you socons just sit down and shut up! You’re scaring the Independents.” And thus the Chihuahua spake, and great was the marvelling, but not that he spoke.  But that he spoke English as everyone knew Chihuahuas spoke Spanish ‘Yo quiero Taco Bell?’, and then even more at the silliness that it spake.

For even now, out on the darkened plain, there were coming Independents.  They knew something was wrong, they knew the nation needed to be fixed, and here, here was competence and enthusiasm, a gift of the old American can-do spirit in the Band Upon the Hill.  Now some few turned aside when they heard the Chihuahua yap, but most ignored it, and the song played on.

For what is needed is an enthused Band which then draws in the Moderates.  Anything that makes the Band dispirited must be considered with extreme skepticism.

And so the Chihuahuas in their dozens gathered together even as the Bandplace filled with tens of thousands.  And the running dog lackeys of the imperialists began to bark a peculiar call…you…cannot….legislate….morality.  Which was of course, nonsense.

And then the summoned came out of their graves. Cold, icy figures, with pale, ancient skins.  They had once been human, but the winds that sweep the Beltway take away humanity and leave behind something colder, older, and more indifferent, yet keener behind.

“We hatez youz.” The dogs growled.

“We knoooooooow.” The ancient undead, who pretended to life as t hey pretended to Republicanism, spoke in eerie unison. “But youooo hate the Socons more. How much of your liberty will you swear over to us, the Legions of the Undead, in exchange for another article attacking the socons, and trying to get them to sit in the back of teh bus where we both feel they belong?”

The negotiations were quickly completed.  It was a deal that had been made many times before by both sides.  And then as the undead sorcerors spoke the dread words, rain, cold, chilling, weary-making fell from the air.  The sorcerors had to be careful.  Too much, and the army of the West they summoned every electoral year would be fatally weakened, and too little and the Army might start thinking for itself.  They were grateful to the chihuahuas distantly. Without them, this could never work.  America would have freed itself without the Libertarians attacing Socons.

The rain fell, and the chihuahuas came back and started telling everyone to go home. Can’t play electric guitar in the rain. 

But then the Guitar Hero strode forth, rivers of sweat, tears, and cold rain coursing down his face.  He asked for some help, and this time, the Liberterian groupie ignored his chihuahua friends, and leapt up to hold a tarp over the Guitar Hero’s head, and more importantly his guitar.

And then the Guitar Hero began to play.  He played a song of never surrender, never give up, we will be free.

We Will Be Free!  The crowd chanted back, a steely determination in its voice.

And in the dark and the rain, undead sorcerors stopped their words of power, and heard what they had feared to here for decades, an unleashed Socon, a Conservative Without Fear.  The man who would stand for Life and against Taxes, and for Concealed Carry, and against Amnesty, and would smile ever so softly before he told a dictator ‘that’s enough, right there.’  The man who could bend a cost curve with his biceps, and punch out a hippie from across the country.  He was here, in the thousands, and the RINOs fled back to the Country Clubs and got themselves good and drunk on Cosmopolitans to try to wipe out the horror of it all.

And then, it was time to come together, all together, under the Banner of Full Blooded Conservatism.

My brother and sister conservatives, is it not time to come together?  To unify around the values we share?

As the soft strains of piano drifty by, I hear the heavy metal grinding coming over the hill.  The answer to this question is clear. Nooooooooooo! scream the wailing guitars.

Then what is it time for?  The voice is clear, and severe as it echoes out of the war fog shrouded hill.

It is time for some facts to be told whose worth is more than lobbyists’ gold. On to a stage, just fresh shown by the winds of history blowing back the fogs of ignorance, a great guitar hero comes, bearing with him the three-legged chair of Conservatism.  Will he sit on it?  Will the leg of Socon, and Fiscon, and Milcon accomodate and compromise with one another, to hold him up?

A deep breath is heard from the onlookers as the guitar hero ventures to the front edge of the stage.  He raises the chair above his  head, and laughing maniacally, he smashes it at his feet.

“This is a lie-e-e-e!” He sings out over the sudden gasp, his voice like violin string on fire.

“I am a man, a Conservative Man./I stand for Right/I stand for Life/Take my gun, and I’ll kick your can/Lower my tax or feel the rage of my sax/I stand for one wife/I stand for all that is true and bright in our history, and in the Holy Word/And if you don’t like it, I don’t care, for haven’t you heard?/I’m a Conservative Man.

He ushered the band on to the stand, and all were like him, bold, and brave, and beautiful. Oh, there were one or two groupies, lesser sorts, a Libertarian there to carry the spare copies of the Hayek Songbook (because every band member already had one), and a Superhawk bird hopped about the stage, but he too was vastly outnumbered by the band, and bessides the band agreed with him when he was Conservative.

So we saw that the Socons were the Base, I mean the Band, and that it rocked mightily. And we saw that the largely inconsequential wings were the Fiscons and the Superhawks.  But it was not so, for there comes a Chihuahua, growling, furious, frothering at the mouth, an dit attacks a cable used by one of the band.  And a guitar is dimmed. Tragedy strikes.  A pure beautiful conservative voice is shut down, a pall falls on the whole land.

“I said, by George, I want a truce on the social issues. Can’t you socons just sit down and shut up! You’re scaring the Independents.” And thus the Chihuahua spake, and great was the marvelling, but not that he spoke.  But that he spoke English as everyone knew Chihuahuas spoke Spanish ‘Yo quiero Taco Bell?’, and then even more at the silliness that it spake.

For even now, out on the darkened plain, there were coming Independents.  They knew something was wrong, they knew the nation needed to be fixed, and here, here was competence and enthusiasm, a gift of the old American can-do spirit in the Band Upon the Hill.  Now some few turned aside when they heard the Chihuahua yap, but most ignored it, and the song played on.

For what is needed is an enthused Band which then draws in the Moderates.  Anything that makes the Band dispirited must be considered with extreme skepticism.

And so the Chihuahuas in their dozens gathered together even as the Bandplace filled with tens of thousands.  And the running dog lackeys of the imperialists began to bark a peculiar call…you…cannot….legislate….morality.  Which was of course, nonsense.

And then the summoned came out of their graves. Cold, icy figures, with pale, ancient skins.  They had once been human, but the winds that sweep the Beltway take away humanity and leave behind something colder, older, and more indifferent, yet keener behind.

“We hatez youz.” The dogs growled.

“We knoooooooow.” The ancient undead, who pretended to life as t hey pretended to Republicanism, spoke in eerie unison. “But youooo hate the Socons more. How much of your liberty will you swear over to us, the Legions of the Undead, in exchange for another article attacking the socons, and trying to get them to sit in the back of teh bus where we both feel they belong?”

The negotiations were quickly completed.  It was a deal that had been made many times before by both sides.  And then as the undead sorcerors spoke the dread words, rain, cold, chilling, weary-making fell from the air.  The sorcerors had to be careful.  Too much, and the army of the West they summoned every electoral year would be fatally weakened, and too little and the Army might start thinking for itself.  They were grateful to the chihuahuas distantly. Without them, this could never work.  America would have freed itself without the Libertarians attacing Socons.

The rain fell, and the chihuahuas came back and started telling everyone to go home. Can’t play electric guitar in the rain. 

But then the Guitar Hero strode forth, rivers of sweat, tears, and cold rain coursing down his face.  He asked for some help, and this time, the Liberterian groupie ignored his chihuahua friends, and leapt up to hold a tarp over the Guitar Hero’s head, and more importantly his guitar.

And then the Guitar Hero began to play.  He played a song of never surrender, never give up, we will be free.

We Will Be Free!  The crowd chanted back, a steely determination in its voice.

And in the dark and the rain, undead sorcerors stopped their words of power, and heard what they had feared to here for decades, an unleashed Socon, a Conservative Without Fear.  The man who would stand for Life and against Taxes, and for Concealed Carry, and against Amnesty, and would smile ever so softly before he told a dictator ‘that’s enough, right there.’  The man who could bend a cost curve with his biceps, and punch out a hippie from across the country.  He was here, in the thousands, and the RINOs fled back to the Country Clubs and got themselves good and drunk on Cosmopolitans to try to wipe out the horror of it all.

And then, it was time to come together, all together, under the Banner of Full Blooded Conservatism.