You Don't Crack The Whip;The Whip Cracks You
There's one great thing about being a crank in this country.

Well, there's three great things about it. This is especially true in Election Years. More frequently than in off-years, Shrub or one of his torpedos are bumping their gums and all the red/blue courtiers carry on as if roses are coming out of the space between instead of turds. If you're a crank, you can revel in your skill at having seen the calamity du jour coming from miles away long before your more stable and trusting friends managed to. You have learned from experience. That's Joy No. 1.

Joy No. 2: You can look over your shoulder and tell them what you've seen. You can warn them, in a friendly fashion, to refresh their pommanders like never before in preparation for another huge and particularly sticky/stinky barage of turds. You feel that burst of bracing, if bittersweet, hope that they'll listen. You can help them, at least in a small way. This time will be different than all the others.



"Look," you cried back in December of 2004, jumping up and down and waving your hat aggressively in their faces. "Look over there ! The Democrats just elevated Harry 'Abortion Bad/Gambling Good' Reid to the position of Minority Whip ! You understand, don't you, that the farce is ending. The Democrats are sending you a clear signal that legal abortion has long been a mere Pet Rock in their ever-dwindling stock of nostalgiac souveneirs. You've had your fun with it, but now it's time for them to sell it on ebay so a lobbyist somewhere can buy himself/herself a new boat. Harry likes riding on boats."

Of course, they just yawned at you and waved you away. Just like all the other times. Perhaps they even spat, "Leave us alone, you crank," before they went back to tailoring their latest sackcloth 'n ash ensembles in preparation for the New Year.

Okay, that's not so joyful. It's often an excruciatingly painful moment, not because you care about being a known crank. (Well, not much.) No, it's because it hurts to see shit falling from the sky and knowing that you're just not a good enough orator to get the folks you care about to run for cover.

When the Almighty passed out the power of persuasion, you were... passed out... somewhere. Too many Whiskey Sours, most likely.

Joy No. 3 ? Well, that's not joy as it's usually understood. It's more like a consolation/compassion mix. A band-aid with yellow smiley faces on it. It happens --for example-- after Justice Alito gets his slot on the Supreme Court despite all the begging, pleading, tithing and grovelling your friends engaged in when they started to smell that telltale aroma of falling turds. They gave their all, but the Blue courtiers scarcely cared any more than their Red pals did. Ironically, at this moment when you should feel farthest from your friends (because you know better than to waste any more energy or cash on such pointless behavior), you instead feel as close to them as you ever could. They, like you, are hurting from the knowledge that they are lousy persuaders. Unfortunately, they will blame themselves for that tomorrow. They always do.

But I ramble.

There you stand, splattered with shit like everyone else. But it doesn't smell too much;You loaded your pommander for bear a year ago and it's doing its job. You are splattered with inescapable proof that the asshole pro-life Minority Whip has no more morals than a junkyard dog. Yes, he has helped his buddies on the other side of the aisle put the screws to you again. Nothing else explains his Party's half-hearted, half-assed, pretend attempt at stopping Alito. Nothing else explains why Reid was kicked upstairs in the first place.

The pet rock has been listed. Watchers are showing up in droves. It's not a question of whether the auction will close with a sale, but when. The Whip will make a bundle, though you will never know exactly how much. You take a deep breath, and refrain from saying "I tried to warn you all." Knowing that you are a flawed, but compassionate person, is what passes for Joy No. 3.

Later, you wander off to find some rags to wipe yourself off with. You don't like to be around your friends at moments like this. It hurts when they blame themselves. Almost as much as it hurts when they blame you.