Why Alan Grayson Must Go

April 12, 2014

Greetings, my dear readers. It’s me, Thurston. What’s that? You haven’t heard from me for a while? You thought that maybe I’d kicked the bucket? Look here, you swarm of rotten, stinking bottle flies -- I’ll let you know when my time is up, and not a minute sooner. For the time being, you are permitted to continue to bask in my sanctified glow, although I seriously doubt that you have any real appreciation for my exalted majesty. You’re probably so busy fiddling around with your damned idiotic “smart” phone, playing some kind of infantile video game or firing off yet another mindless and inconsequential text message, that you probably won’t even make it to the end of this paragraph. I suppose that’s just too much to ask from your shriveled, pathetic little attention spans. Ah, you and your kind are beyond saving.

So, where have I been? What’s been going on since my last article in August of 2012? Well, somehow I have thus far managed to survive Barack Osama’s second presidential regime period. (But don’t be so sure that I’ll make it to the end of this one.) Dear readers, I have not gone anywhere. I am still firmly ensconced within my surprisingly modest yet undeniably commodious abode, from where I receive a constant stream of monthly rent payments from those laboring-class individuals who have been granted the privilege of occupying my numerous properties. During the warmer months, General Strangeness has continued to dutifully cut my grass, and when Old Man Winter has deposited abundant snowfall upon my property during colder times, the general has regularly come to keep my sidewalk and driveway clear. For these and other manual duties I have compensated him adequately, but not so much that he might forget his proper place. My trusty canine companion, Mr. Twinkle, is doing well, and now spends as much time at General Strangeness’s humble shed dwelling as he does at my residence, which has taken some getting used to on my part, but what other choice do I have? Mr. Twinkle is his own man. My exasperating and enervating neighbor Karen has not ceased her periodic visits to my home, but I am pleased to say that the frequency of such encounters has gradually fallen off over the last several months, since she now seems to be involved in a long-term relationship with a man named Julio who doesn’t speak Spanish. I could go on, but that’ll just have to be enough for now. And if you don’t like it -- well, then, tough cookies for you.

“Thurston,” you inquire in a deluded manner, “why haven’t you written anything for the website lately?” Look here, you… Ah, forget it -- you come up with the colorfully pejorative term yourself. You know very well what you deserve. Honestly, I’m getting too old for this. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, I shall answer. I’ve written plenty for the website for months and months, but in spite of all my best efforts, none of what I’ve submitted has been published.

Back in September of 2012, I told that inflexible socialist tyrant Somebody that it was time for me to head in a new direction with my writing, and that from then on I would exclusively dedicate myself to epic poetry. In October of 2012 I submitted the first part of my masterpiece “Flight of the Missiles,” which describes the launching of a series of thermonuclear missiles from American bases, ships, and subs, and the subsequent detonation of those missiles over the lands of our mortal enemies.

After I hand delivered to Somebody the manuscript for the first installment of the poem, he read over it for a minute or two, frowned, then coldly remarked, “Thanks, Thurston, but I can’t put this up on the webpage. Sorry.” When I demanded to know why, he mumbled something about not being able to handle the part about millions of “innocent” people being “senselessly” slaughtered for what he considered to be a “pointless and suicidal war.” He then asked me if I could just get back to writing my “usual stuff,” as he so prosaically put it.

Of course, I felt nothing but contempt for his milquetoast response, but I bit my lip, and then firmly explained to him (in an only slightly furious manner) that, in spite of his present refusal, I would continue to submit to him the other parts of the poem as I proceeded to write them, and that he would eventually agree to posting the work, end of discussion. In my optimistic and naïve heart I hoped that once he understood the full grandeur and glory of my literary vision, he would somehow see the forest in spite of the trees, so to speak, and choose to publish the epic poem online in its entirety. Ah, how misguided were my hopes…

So, month after month I prepared and submitted my latest installments of this evolving work, each of which focuses upon a military target: Moscow, Teheran, Beijing (the manuscript for which I ultimately chose not to submit when I remembered how much Wal-Mart depends upon Chinese goods), Pyongyang, Baghdad, Havana (unless the Cubans in Miami can somehow regain control of the place), Islamabad, Caracas, Riyadh (sorry, Sheik Ahmad, we don’t need you anymore now that we’re fracking oil in North Dakota, and we never really liked you anyway), Kabul, Paris (never did like the French), and San Francisco (of course, after all good people have been evacuated and only undesirables remain).

And what did all of that get me? A few days after I’d turned in the final installment, which ends with the annihilation of San Francisco, that cesspool of communistic godlessness, I went to visit Somebody at his office, hoping that somehow by now he had seen the light. But he was evasive, saying that he was kind of thinking about what might be done with my epic poem, and thank you very much for your hard work and all that, and maybe with some editing there might somehow be a way to put it up there on the website in abridged form after a couple of years. He then nervously asked me if I was considering raising the rent on the office, to which I sternly replied that nothing was off the table as far as I was concerned.

“Look here,” I demanded. “Bring out the submissions I’ve turned in to you and let’s look over them together with a fine-toothed comb right this very minute and find out exactly what you object to.” However, he claimed that he’d left them somewhere else and that they weren’t in the office, so we’d just have to do that some other time. So, I simply shrugged my shoulders without a response and proceeded to head for the door, when I noticed a bunch of papers in a nearby waste basket. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that it was my latest installment of the epic poem. The rental rate for the office was increased substantially that day.

“Thurston,” you impertinently inquire, “what about the supposed subject of this article? When are you going to get to that, huh?” Well, well, well -- you’ve made it this far, haven’t you? Miracle of miracles, your thimbleful of patience has paid off, you verminous cretin. Here comes Alan Grayson.

First off, we must ask ourselves, “Who exactly is Alan Grayson?” Well, before he got into politics, he was just another two-bit lawyer in Florida trying to litigate (that is, fleece) money out of hardworking and upstanding titans of business and industry, leaders of capitalist endeavor who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and realized the American dream. That should tell you right from the beginning what to expect from the man, which is that he hates America. If he loved this country, he would have been defending those job-creating companies, not trying to extract cash from them and give most of it to the miserable, ungrateful, and wretched employees who provided him with the flimsy pretexts he needed to sue. Who did he think he was -- Robin Hood or something?

So, you can clearly see that before he even got elected, the man was all about WEALTH REDISTRIBUTION. And yes, I did use all caps there on purpose because I want you to understand that I AM SHOUTING WHEN I SAY THOSE VILE, EVIL, AND DETESTABLE WORDS THAT THREATEN THE VERY EXISTENCE OF THIS GREAT COUNTRY.

But Alan Grayson didn’t just happen to be anywhere in Florida. Oh no, he was right smack dab in the middle of Orlando, home of Disneyworld, a true mecca of capitalist entertainment for American families. (As for Mecca in Saudi Arabia, you couldn’t pay me to go there. Not that I’d be welcome anyway.) For years and years, upstanding Republicans worthy of Walt Disney’s legacy and values, and comfortably sustained by campaign cash from a small handful of leaders of industry and commerce, had been representing Orlando’s district in the House of Representatives. All was as it should be in that part of the state. And then, Alan Grayson decided to run for office, and Orlando’s voters were shamefully hoodwinked.

How did it happen in such as place as this? Did the people of that district forget which side their bread is buttered on? Well, it certainly wasn’t because of any campaign cash received from businessmen of integrity, because all of them saw right through Alan Grayson and didn’t offer him one single red cent. Now, maybe there were some despicable, self-proclaimed “entrepreneurs” (which is a French word no less) who threw him a dollar or two, but I suppose you’ll always find a handful of crazies here and there. So, where did he get his war chest from? Well, he got it from a big frigging mess of itty-bitty individual online donations contributed by brainwashed masses of laboring-class numbskulls, that’s where.

You see, Alan Grayson may be evil, but he’s not stupid. He knew that if he was going to stand a chance at being elected with his anti-capitalist agenda, he was going to have to get campaign money from the deluded scum who shared his views. Most of the time, those people (most likely meaning you and your kind, dear reader) don’t give anything to political campaigns because they have to use all of their quaint little salaries to pay the rent and buy food, which is how it should be, of course. People have to know their place. If you can’t influence the political process, then you should have no say in it. This is how the American system is supposed to work. Actually, it’s quite ingenious, since according to this natural order of things, it is the strong and powerful (such as yours truly) who call the shots, and all the rest obey our command. My friends, in order to have a job-creating economy, THIS is how it MUST be, and the Citizens United decision on the Supreme Court reflects that. But you see that Alan Grayson doesn’t care about the natural order because he is an unnatural perversion -- a job-destroying cancer upon the American political system.

Owing to the cunning implementation of his unholy strategy, Grayson was elected, and leaders of industry took note of the stunning loss of Orlando, which they had always thought to be a safely reliable and secure zone of big-money influence. It was a cruel and deceitful sucker punch for which they were entirely unprepared.

But they would indeed be better prepared when Grayson went up for reelection. A veritable torrent of campaign cash came rolling in from a number of noble, self-sacrificing, and wealthy donors who rolled up their sleeves and showed us all how much they love America. In the Orlando area, ads attacking Grayson ran on the television and the radio day and night. The slithering monster was overwhelmed by the onslaught, the American way of life was preserved in Orlando, and Alan Grayson had to pack up his stuff and leave. Good riddance!

So, you would think that the story had a happy ending. You would imagine that Mickey Mouse breathed a final sigh of relief and the credits rolled on the screen. Alas, dear readers, it was not to be. No, Alan Grayson would not be dismissed so easily. He is a determined man, as malicious villains always are. On the next round of elections he once again employed his unethical tactics and regained his office in spite of all efforts by men of influence and power to stop him.

Once again, the House of Representatives has been forced to endure his protocol-busting speeches, his insane rants against the Republican party, his gross insults, his outright lies, his vicious demagoguery, his insolence, his insubordination, his idiotic populism, etc. Every day that he been on the floor of the House has been a slap in the face to the leaders of this nation, and I mean the REAL leaders -- I’m talking about the people who have the most money, who run the biggest and most powerful companies, who own the most land, who possess multi-million dollar mansions and thousand-acre estates, who smoke cigars while bathing in gold-plated Jacuzzi tubs, who have blonde-haired trophy mistresses and dutiful, church-going wives, and WHO HIRE THE MOST PEOPLE. I mean the RIGHTFUL RULERS OF THE UNITED STATES.

There, I said it. See, I’ve told you before that I’m not like those other conservative op-ed writers. If you want the unvarnished truth, you come to me. Enough said.

It might seem to you that Alan Grayson has won for good, and that as long as he is alive and officially residing in the Orlando area, he will continue to represent that district. But not so fast, my dear reader, not so fast, not so fast. Yes, it might indeed seem that Alan Grayson is a persistent stain that cannot be removed, but that is not so, and for two reasons, which are one Koch brother and the other one.

Certainly you must have already heard of the Koch brothers. From my point of view, that’s kind of like asking if you’ve ever heard of Batman and Robin, of the Lone Ranger and Tonto, of Sonny and Cher, of Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy, of Laurel and Hardy, of Lenny and Squiggy, of Bonnie and Clyde, of Superman and… Well, you get the idea. Those brothers are legendary. They are superheroes in the realm of American finance. Let me put it to you another way. Both of them have so much money they could probably keep up a roaring and continuous blaze of one-hundred-dollar bills in the fifty-foot-wide fireplace in their mansion’s banquet hall for the rest of their natural lives, and as a consequence see less than a one-percent reduction in their collective personal fortune upon their deaths. My friends, that’s the kind of wealth I’m talking about. They quite literally have money to burn.

So, you might think that since the Koch brothers have achieved the American dream, they might be content to simply sit back and enjoy the hard-earned and abundantly well-deserved fruits of their labors, that is, to spend their days relaxingly sunning themselves upon the elegant beaches of Monaco, casually playing polo on the manicured lawns upon which their thoroughbred horses gallantly frolic, and leisurely enjoying a few rounds of golf upon the finest courses that the world has to offer. And truth be told, they probably do spend a good bit of time engaged in such worthy recreational activities. Who can honestly blame them for that?

But make no mistake. The Koch brothers did not rise to the pinnacle of American society by being complacent and soft. No, my friends, let’s get one thing straight -- vigilance and wealth go hand in hand. And the Koch brothers are wise enough to realize that once you’ve become king of the hill, you’ve got to fight with every ounce of strength you’ve got just to hold on to what you have. Dear reader, they have focused their laser-like gazes upon Alan Grayson, they see a palpable threat to everything that they cherish and hold dear, and they have resolved to do something about it. My friends, we owe them a deep and heartfelt debt of gratitude, we truly do.

Realizing that the key to stopping Alan Grayson on the next round of elections is to start early and to hit him as hard as possible, they have put their financial might to work and paid for a blitzkrieg attack-ad campaign designed to show Orlando’s voters just what a worthless, spineless, terrorist-loving, job-killing fraud and huckster Alan Grayson really and truly is. You know the saying folks. Might makes right, and the Koch brothers are mighty indeed. God bless the Koch brothers, amen.

If this were a fair and just world that we live in, that would be enough to defeat Alan Grayson. But as you well know, this world is a difficult and treacherous place for anyone who stands up for truth and the American way. Tragically, all it takes is a mob of gelatin-brained, wage-earning boobs stumbling into the polling booths to ruin the very best efforts of the Koch brothers. What a messed up state of affairs! What a mismanaged and misdirected country this has become! Honestly, we should pass a law requiring that only outstanding American citizens who possess a substantial personal fortune should be permitted to vote. I, of course, would qualify, but you, dear reader, would probably not. And quite frankly, that is how it should be. But alas, alas, and again alas, it is not so.

Let us all pray. Dear Lord, we ask that you keep careful watch over the dear, noble Koch brothers. Help them, oh Lord, in their struggle against the evil, godless Alan Grayson. We pray that they may emerge victorious from this grim battle, and that a Republican, any Republican, may be enabled to defeat Alan Grayson so that Mickey Mouse may finally feel safe again in the Cinderella Palace at Disneyworld. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.

My, that was a very satisfying prayer. But all that writing has tired me out. It’s time to replenish my energies. So now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to drink some Cutty Sark and eat a couple of Hostess-brand strawberry-flavored Twinkies from my personal hoard.

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