Calhouns Can(n)ons

Reruns, Again?

Here’s what the American people will learn about the most recent financial meltdown –





That’s right. Nothing.

And in a few years, (or earlier, since it appears from the polls people have no clue the role John McCain has played in all this since he’s rebranded himself with a new Big Lie as the New-To-Washington, No, I Don’t Know Phil Gramm, Phil Who?, “reforming” Maverick, a deliciously phony story that’s apparently being bought by a whole lot of people), when the dust settles, some new! Improved! Pied Pipers will come along and tell the “American Public,” better known as Uninformed, Ignorant, Immature, Willful Children, “Oh, you poor dears, laboring under all those high taxes to pay for stuff you want or use like roads and bridges and decent healthcare and a functioning, working FDA that helps keep you from being poisoned by your food and drugs, Don’t you understand, it’s MORNING IN AMERICA, you don’t need to keep paying all those big, nasty TAXES for that wicked, evil BIG GOVERNMENT! All those evil people do is take your money and make your life more complicated with all their tiresome RULES AND REGULATIONS. Plus, you don’t need to be frugal and conserve resources. No, No, elect ME and you can buy a Hummer AND we’ll do away with all that “public” stuff, we’ll privatize it all, LET THE MARKET TAKE CARE OF ANY PROBLEMS and you’ll end up with mountains of wonderful, yummy FREE PUDDING and NO NEW TAXES!”

And the American Voter, children that they are, will yell, “Yaaaayyyy! Free Pudding! And it doesn’t cost me a penny! Yaaaaayyyyyy!”

And the whole pathetic train of events we’ve witnessed AGAIN will start up . . . again. Rerun nation.

Your Sunday Poem

From “Belongings, by Sandra M. Gilbert

SUNDAY MORNING AND

Like a two-toed sloth you
dangle in a tidy
jar of sleep, sleep

accretes around you –
expensive honey,
thick and sticky-sweet –

so over and over again
you dip, you lick,
though just outside

the rain is busy
weaving a shawl of dark
canals around the house,

and the garden is turning
into little Venice, little
Amsterdam, except

without traditions,
since after all the gods
packed up their vast majestic

bags some centuries ago,
and now not a single black umbrella
sets off down the hill to church . . . .

Why bother to stand
upright on a day like this?

Why not just bury your
snout in utter honey?

Old leaves are shredding
in the canals, and the streets
are full of strange debris.