Between Embarrassment and Travesty

My party—the Republican Party—has an all-star lineup of goons and losers lined up to speak at the nominating convention, and it’s somewhere between an embarrassment and a travesty. There’s that white privilege poster child who thinks his hurt little feelings are worth a cool half billion in cold cash (dream on, kid!), the gold-digger currently married to the coward-in-chief, a racist couple famed for frivolous lawsuits and random gun-brandishing, a quack with a nostrum for our current ailment, a grieving father who thinks the cure for what ails our schools is still more weapons in them. What a goddamn freakshow. None of these people have any business being in America, let alone telling anybody else what to do or how to live their lives. The whole bunch of them ought to be loaded onto a boat and sent off to whatever benighted country will take them—or better yet, be loaded onto a spaceship for Venus like those unlucky citizens in the Kornbluth story. (You know the one.) Well, party on friends. The ship’s sinking, but the band plays on. Is that “Songe d’Automne” I hear? Or “Nearer, My God, To Thee”?