Ass Kissers and Boot Lickers: Saving White Charisma for 2016

Blame it on you, blame it on me
Now let's erase the wound that's in our history
Pain in my heart won't let me be
Take it from me but don't you take away my liberty
Father of coal, mother of pearl
Never too black to blush to pick up a white girl
The color of you, the color of me
You can't judge a man by looking at the marquee

- Garland Jeffreys, Hail, Hail Rock 'n Roll, from the album, Don't Call Me Buckwheat

You will be attacked for coming on. And we know you know that.

- Alex Jones, December 2, 2015 

Parting comment to Donald Trump (Infowars.com)

Journalism and history are usually mutually exclusive beings left better to themselves. They don't mix well. The pursuit of one closes the door on the other. But when there's mud on the floor, a big hole in the roof and the rain pouring down, it's a lot easier to drag history and its temperamental cousin out of the building to the back porch for a spanking, a good rinse and some time to dry when the sun comes out. Then they can both lie in peace with one another.

We have a great big new hole in the roof, and through it has fallen the fellow who says he can patch it. Make America Great Again. This time, the stand up, charismatic white guy has enough money to do his own job and he's brought in his own ass kissers and boot lickers. Just when the world thought Citizens United had set the grand stage for a new round of Reagan PAC puppeteers and OZmasters, The Donald plunged through the roof, splattering the American political theater like a bunker buster worse than any Parisian terrorist could invent.

Now, it might be fairly observed that self-styled "alternative media" guru, Alex Jones has crossed even that barrier, because in a recent interview with Donald Trump, he threw himself squarely into the lot of what many Vietnam veterans called "ass wipes".

Look at the interview. If you can get through it, you'll be as clean as you feel after a colonoscopy.

Words, our supposed tools, cannot fully describe the bombast of the 2016 presidential election, because, like the race of an ancient schooner fleet, the charisma challenge is already at full mast, and the winds are blowing hard from all directions. For the onlookers, it's a county fair crap shoot, players huddled and hunched over, hands closed with the dice ready to throw to determine who's the next journalist. But when millions of onlookers show up like pigs at the trough, slopping up the next bucket of feed at the crap shoot table, anyone can be the next Walter Cronkite. Right?

These new great-for-America video colonists, who drag history through the mud as well as many people they don't know, are breeding the underground urchins of the alien in everyone. 

Dare mention the food in the bucket? It's racism, of the kind processed and sold pure and unadulterated, homogenized and pasteurized - everything the silent want in their new political diet, smelling good and familiar and tasting "nice", like Donald describes it. 

It not what we're born with, the type of racism that, on first sight, made the smiling face of my Mexican friend's brown baby grandson turn to a frown and give the stink-eye to the first pasty-face gringo he ever laid eyes on, or the kind of newborn racism my baby daughter exerted when she screamed bloody murder at her first sight of Columbus Greenlee, an old and beautiful angel of a man, a Virginia farmer in coveralls, with a face disguised in skin blacker than a starless night sky. That's the racism I adore. It comes from above, like a rainbow, and its lightning force, though fearsome, is delivered by grace. The rest is taught and preached by man and to my mind, has no value except destruction.

After having becoming afraid of their own shadow on the computer screen, racists of the latter order tune in to shadowy "newsmen" like Jones with a warm welcome for such people as Trump, so he can command the charge to meet the fear head on. As a mutant Glen Beck, he fits in perfectly with the Trump campaign. Fear sells better these days than sex and death, and those two side dishes are always easy enough to use in the new recipe. The silent are not always an easy lot to satisfy, but they love food.

History and its vittles be damned. Journalism, the breakfast of champions, wins the day and the big prize; history is consigned to resurrect somewhere down the road, but rewritten for the times as a slave with a seat at the back of the daily news showbus. With voters like the ones who fawn over Trump, how can America go wrong? No one will ever need to advise Trump to get a charisma transplant as they did for losers like Ford, Gore, Dukakis and Carter. 

There we have it: a new charismatic white boy like Reagan, hiding in the wings, camera and sidearm at the hip, ready to march the silent lockstep into the vacuum, sucking up the ill winds of any possible lingering intellect while the bootlicks direct the lost louts down the yellow brick road. After all, isn't it now verified history: anyone who can stand square and center in front of Air Force One inside a California library surely must have all the charisma necessary to be believed, not to mention a darn good grasp of what it takes to motivate America to be great again?

I sure hope we can drag the two of them out of the place before we get another hole in the roof. The sun is shining brightly outside, but the theater's gone dark, and so many are already mired in the mud.