Sorry, Democrats: Party's Over

 

By E.M. Cadwaladr
AmericanThinker.com

There is something deeply satisfying about watching the ironically named Democratic Party consume itself at every turn. I have tried to summon up some human pity for the carnage -- but frankly I just can’t.

If Joe Biden weren’t a corrupt, crude, shallow, self-righteous fondler of people’s children I could probably muster some sympathy for him. There he stands behind the bright blue podium, almost dizzy under the lights, recounting past accomplishments no one ever heard of. He is a creature beyond his time -- a sad figure who has made the subtle crossover from predictable dishonesty into agonized dementia. But Joe is a corrupt, crude, shallow, self-righteous fondler of people’s children. His dementia only makes his ugly nature more apparent. I think they park him next to Bernie mainly to ensure he doesn’t shamble over and sniff Amy Klobuchar’s hair. Joe has fallen in the polls and he can’t get up.

The days of formidable Democratic villains like Slick Willie have ebbed away. Only the narcissism and the dishonesty linger in the air, a 1960s protest song played over and over until nothing is left of the record but an inhuman scratchy hiss. Barack Obama, the last gasp of this mendacious breed, seems largely content to wade in the surf outside his Martha’s Vineyard home. He’s secure in the knowledge that the sea will never actually rise to swallow him and the impetus to prosecute him will probably never actually rise to the necessary priority either. History may drown him after his death, but he is bound to find sycophants enough to worship him until then. The Party’s bottle was sweet while it lasted -- but it has now been drained to the bitterest of dregs.

Speaking of bitter, my musical listening was interrupted the other day by the gaunt specter of one Bernard “Che” Sanders -- begging me for a favor no less. “Vote for me.” No promises on offer, no policy argument, just “Do me a favor -- vote for me.” As a recovering former leftist, I’m not an easy mark for Marx’s miserable old heir. Communism is notoriously reticent in returning favors given purely for its sake. Tens of millions of people during the 20^th century ended up “feelin’ the burn” of being shot, starved, or worked to death -- fates that didn’t even leave them the dignity of regret. “Been there,” as the kids said a decade ago. “Done that.”

Mayor Pete is going nowhere. He has only two rather tenuous claims to fame: he’s a homosexual and he doesn’t rattle easily in front of a camera. His record in South Bend is not that stellar. If one wanted a Democrat mayor, one could at least pick one that’s ruined a bigger city. There are certainly plenty of those to choose from. Cory Booker and Bill DeBlasio ooze to mind. White homosexuals are now passé -- the antiquated victim group of yesteryear. Queerness has now become merely the icing on some less optional minority cake, unless you push it to some repulsive transgendering extreme. Being gay alone has fallen so far down the progressive stack that Mayor Pete is still obliged to apologize to the Democrat base for being no more than another wicked white man. He could try to reinvent himself as a trans-Latino-woman and begin attending debates in Jennifer-Lopez-style drag, but those Alfred E. Neuman manly looks and soyboy-demeanor would certainly ruin the affect.

Elizabeth Warren reminds me of somebody’s grandma who ruined the Thanksgiving turkey and ran out of meds in the same disastrous afternoon. She shakes with apoplectic rage and wiry nervous energy before our eyes. Seeing her and Bernie together on stage is like watching the grandparents I thank God I never had. “Goodbye, Gramma. Don’t worry about the dinner. Try to relax. Please. Sit down and have a beer.” “Goodbye, Grampa. Thanks a lot for the copy of Lenin’s memoirs. Signed by the author himself, I see. ‘To my loyal comrade Bernie -- V.I. Lenin.’ You shouldn’t have.”

Latest to this nightmare circus, scampering around and flinging money at every political consultant, living or dead, is little Michael Bloomberg. “Mike loves minorities!” “Mike protects women’s reproductive rights!” “Mike will get it done!” As if what the circus really needed was one more monkey, one more vacant opportunist wanting to get his grubby fingers on the levers of power. My impression of Bloomberg was etched into memory when Hurricane Sandy hit his city in 2012. He had none of the comforting warmth and reassurance Giuliani offered in the wake of 9/11. “Mike” got on the radio to snarl at the people of his city to get off the streets. They were getting in the way of city services. The one-word summary of Michael Bloomberg is “misanthrope.” When people cheer to see Grandma Warren kick you easily to the curb, it’s not a stretch to think the national stage is not for you.

And these are the best the Democrats have to offer. Their crème de la crème. The ones they’ve offered up to the American public as their vision of the future. It takes twenty minutes of Donald Trump rally reruns just to clear the fetid fumes out of my living room after I watch any their debates. When James Carville complains that he has no interest in being part of a party that’s become a cult -- you know the shine is off the apple, the dreams have started to die, and the chickens have come home to roost.

The Democrats waiting impatiently on the bench are people like “the Squad” -- people who don’t hate middle Americans secretly behind closed doors but hate them openly and wear their hatred as a badge of honor. Not people who want to virtue signal to one another by bringing unassimilated foreigners in -- but people who want to lead the unassimilated foreigners on their campaign of incremental genocide. As a native of this country, that’s just not an endearing program for me. Fortunately, there aren’t enough of them yet to actually pull off such a stunt. The frog has noticed the boiling water just in time.

Schadenfreude is, perhaps, the most delicious of all sins. It makes me smile to know that fewer people are watching CNN than have fled from California in the last few years. These days even Jed Clampett wouldn’t be convinced that Californy is the place he ought to be. He would have the sense to take his money to Texas where the taxes are reasonable and you won’t be flash-mobbed by SJWs chanting that you’re an eco-criminal for striking it rich in the energy sector. Modest as Jed’s education may have been, I think he would have understood that energy is a good thing and letting junkies poop in the aisle at Costco is a bad thing. Even cousin Jethro would have winced at the mountain of filth that Pelosi and her party have made.

It isn’t over until it’s over, but I think the end is coming for the dreamers of Marxist dreams in all their pseudointellectual splendor. There will be weeks and months and probably years of outrages to come, but any way you look at it this geriatric, hippie has-been mafia is munching their last vegan pizza before reality busts in and guns them down.