Victory Party

I’ve managed to avoid three Obama “victory parties” so far.  The only thing that scares me more than the Nazis who follow McCain are the wild-eyed armchair liberals who rally around Obama’s “message” of hope and change.

Which is how Hitler ran his first campaign, by the way.

Well, okay, he actually ran his campaigns with streetgangs, violence, and paranoia.  I just wanted to have a nice teaser.

Still, though, it seems to me that Obama pretty much just stands in front of a microphone and repeats “yes we can” in a monotone for 15 minutes while dazzling lights are shot into our eyes and a low, steady hum lulls us into complacency.  Not that the liberals of America need such encouragement to be complacent, but it’s always good to err on the side of caution when you’re running a country.  Like Stalin.  Just a very cautious man, that’s all.

The victory parties I’ve been avoiding are all somewhat Hitlerian, which is why I had old Adolf in mind when I decided to spend five drunken minutes writing this post without actually paying attention to what I’m saying.

The big party in Maryland, which I’m now in lots of trouble for not attending, required everyone to write down something about the Bush presidency that they didn’t like and then ceremoniously burn the paper in the fireplace.

Okay, so everyone should have written down the war in Iraq, right?  Because one would hope that the Western world would, someday, evolve out of fear, hatred, death, murder, and war.  I’m told that a few people did choose the war, but most wrote down Sarah Palin’s name – the Great Polarizer herself.  So that just confirms my theory that the liberals in America love war, poverty, and the destruction of our constitution… But, fuck, will someone please stop the governor of Alaska!  What’s she got to do with Bush, anyway?

A victory party in Baltimore that I avoided largely because I end up with heavy metal poisoning every time I visit that city took the burning one step further.  The invitation invited us to drink (BYOB, of course, because all my liberal friends are cheap cunts) and then “retire to the roof to burn an effigy of Palin.”

What’s with the Palin hatred?  She’s a nobody.  When Bush I picked Dan Quayle, it was the same principle.  Some airheaded right-wing loon, the laughingstock of the nation, and all we did then was make jokes about tubers.  Of course…he won.  But, still…enter Sarah Palin and it’s as if McCain was running with Damien from The Omen.  Would these Obamaites have preferred McCain pick a viable running mate and win the election?  Maybe I’m missing the point… Maybe the Palin hatred is because liberals were secretly guilty about voting in Obama and really wanted to steer the course with another old white man, and the foul aftertaste of the Moose Hunter took that away from them.

That, at least, is why my grandfather voted for Obama.  If McCain had picked a real running mate, then no problem.  And he was all McCain this and McCain that up until he got into the booth where, he says, he looked at Sarah Palin’s name and realized that all those classmates of his that died at Bataan didn’t die so a fucking woman could be in the White House!

See, he had me going for a moment.  I thought he was going to say because Palin was so horrible, but then he pulled that anti-suffragette stuff out of nowhere.  Of course, he’s also pro-slavery and, I think, is still a little bitter about the Kansas-Nebraska Act.

In Virginia, I’m told that the victory party I wisely avoided (largely because it was in Virginia) featured loops of Obama’s speeches from Youtube on laptops placed throughout the house.  Perhaps the hosts were providing the lights and hypnotic sounds themselves, because that’s the only way his speeches work.  They were providing the booze, which briefly tempted me to cross the Potomac Ocean, but that’s always a sham.  You get there and the idiot wife is trying to make something insane like mint juleps while you’re forced to sit, in stunning sobriety because it takes 30 minutes to properly prepare a drink using three guidebooks, and listen to the husband’s real estate woes.  Then, when whatever stupid cocktail arrives, it’s got the barest whisper of booze.

Or, worse, you arrive and they have a keg of Natural Light and buckets of Gallo wine.

Either scenario would have made hours of the same 15 minute Obama speech somewhat unbearable.  I’d end up like the old Nazi at the end of Apt Pupil, I think.  Demented and goose-stepping around a tiny room in full regalia.

Which is how I act when I bring my own alcohol to a party, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.  I could have gone to the Virginia party and watched the idiot wife labor over mojitos for six hours and forget to put rum in them because she’s so confused by the instructions and, by then, the Yes We Can music video would have seeped deep into my brain and everything would have been okay.  And there’d be no fire with angry people burning things.