Darrell's Dashed Dream

Calhoun's Cannons for Aug 1, 2014 

Darrell ( I'm Ready For My Close Up, Mr. DeMille) Issa is dreaming.  That sweet, sweet dream.  He's the cynosure of all eyes, the subject of all headlines, his camera-ready teeth gleaming in the lights as he heads for the reporters and the microphones waiting just for him. And they'll be waiting for him day after day after day for months.  Every headline will be about the Select Committee he's heading.  He'll be the biggest thing since Monica Lewinsky! 24/7 Issa! Issa! Issa!

Suddenly, his eyes flutter and beads of sweat pop out on his forehead. " UhnnnNooooo," he moans. The nightmare has returned.  That awful, awful nightmare.  In it, the lights suddenly fade, the cameras disappear, reporters are nowhere in sight, and those who remain keep asking, "What did you say your name was?"  Then the halls are empty and he's alone in the dark. 

With a shriek, he sits bolt upright in his bed and realizes in horror that it wasn't just a bad dream.  That damned Boehner and his fellow Republicans -- those FOOLS! -- had blown it! And Darrell starts to blubber, Boo-hoo-hoo. 

Indeed, they did.  No longer content with spending years systematically poisoning Barak Obama and all his works, drop by drop, until the public's eyes glazed over and they gave Congress the lowest ratings in history, they sensed that even their base was growing weary waiting for the Prez to keel over, something he stubbornly refused to do, so they started teasingly floating the "I" word about the TwitterVerse.

Impeachment!  Ah, that magic word, glittering in all its power, promising a fabulous opportunity for Lies to get twice around the world before Truth could even put on it's shoes.  The perfect excuse for a Do Nothing Congress to continue doing nothing while self-righteously posturing in the public eye 24/7.  A glorious  piece of Theatre for feeding the Republican base with huge hunks of red meat.  Constant headlines, media punditry on steroids, this would be BIG.  Waaaaay bigger than Benghazi!  Bigger than ObamaCare!  Bigger than Birth Certificates!  BIG!

And what did the cowardly Republican Congressmen do?  Instead of a go-for-broke  Grand Spectacle, they file some sort of crummy lawsuit.   A lawsuit, for God's sake!!   No lights.  No cameras.  No grandstanding. After a flurry, no headlines.  Just dishwater-dull, mumbling lawyers -- LAWYERS! -- with their clause A's and sub-paragraph B's, endlessly  gathering in quiet courtrooms to argue and object over incomprehensible minutia until everybody's heads explode and they change the channel.

"Fools!" Issa mutters, peering glumly into his morning coffee.  "Not only are the Republicans in Congress unwilling to govern, they're now unfit to govern!  Can't even get an article of  Impeachment right.  Instead, a pissant lawsuit?  And now everyone is laughing at us.  Bwa-Hahahahah. Weenies!  Girly Men! Bring it on! HaHaHaHa!"

Meanwhile, both parties hit the airwaves. Eeek! Impeachment! Send us money, they cried.  No, send us the money!

Which absolutely blows Darrell (I'm Ready For My Close Up, Mr. DeMille) Issa's sweet, sweet dream of heading up the Select Committee running the impeachment proceedings. Poor Darrell. Camera-ready teeth and no cameras.

And poor America.  Two more years of wasting time while the world burns.  And now, no bread or circuses for the mob. Just a coterie of plodding . . . lawyers.

Bummer.