“I’ve never heard her [Kamala Harris] say anything original or observant; at her best, she simply recites the party line. At her worst, she’s too lazy to memorize the party line.”
- Lionel Shriver
Does anybody know what this shape-shifting chimera passed off as “our democracy” actually is? I will tell you. Like everything else in the Democratic Party’s tool-bag these days, it’s the opposite of what it appears to mean, namely: You, the demos, give us, officialdom, the power to take whatever we like from you: your savings, your liberty, your stuff, your identity, and your posterity — because we are the boss-of-you, and don’t you forget it. . . and, by the way, the beatings will continue until morale improves.
It’s really that simple, though the deceptions cooked up to hide it are convoluted to the max. Like: engineering the illegal entrance to the US of millions from other lands and then using procedural hocus-pocus such as motor-voter registration and public assistance applications (free money + automatic voter registration) to stuff the election drop-boxes with the ballots of non-citizens — who, get this, don’t even have to be the ones casting those ballots, which can just be harvested, like so many oven-ready pullets, by lowly hired shills. If you catch onto the ruse, you’ll be instructed that borders are arbitrary roadblocks to social justice thrown up by the old white male patriarchy, and that these are “free and fair elections.”
And if you object loudly enough, you lose your job, your livelihood, your Facebook account, and maybe get thrown into solitary confinement for a year.
Our democracy.
Meanwhile, we’re enjoying the spectacle of this evil party’s candidate selection tour with their joyful warriors/avatars, Harris and Walz — joyful because they laugh and laugh in the absence of articulating any actual views on the particulars of governance, and it’s infectious to witness all that mirth. There is, of course, an artificially strenuous air about all this hoopla. It rolls out in an alternative reality like one of those summer techno-pop raves where everyone is stoned on MDMA. The dream girl gets launched into center-stage by invisible forces and is joined by her prom king, and it’s just so heartwarming to get waved at by the grinning, hand-holding couple nobody voted for. This is your demos-free ticket!
Will anybody at the imminent Democratic National Convention notice how this all mysteriously came to be? And might there be any active consternation over it? Perhaps even a welling movement to pull the plug on this rave? You may be apt to wonder what is going on in the Chappaqua redoubt of She-Whose-Turn-Has-Been-(so far)-Thwarted, HRC, boss-of-all-girl-bosses, putatively retired from public life. She’s been awfully quiet since that night over a week ago when she was obliged on-stage somewhere to hug and air-kiss Ms. Harris, and made a face seconds after as if she had thrown up in her mouth.
Is she stewing in the broth of grievance but still and nonetheless tirelessly working her phone to canvas the delegates of that looming party meet-up? She might remind them that the DNC (that is, the Democratic National Committee, Inc), went broke in 2016 and got bailed out by the Clinton Foundation checkbook, and, Jeez, we can’t seem to find any repayment check from all’y’all. It seems maybe you owe us. . . something.
And, by the way, HRC could remind said delegates: you have allowed a laughing hyena who drinks her lunch to land at the head of the ticket for the worst reasons (viz., DEI) minus any votes from the party membership, and then managed to duct-tape a China-owned, Cluster-B head-case to her as the veep sidekick. . . and maybe when all the hee-hawing and hooting dies down, you’ll discover what a pair of losers you’ve allowed to be undemocratically implanted to (ha!) represent you. And also, by the way, I happen to be available as her capable-and-experienced replacement. . . whom you can actually vote for on the convention floor, if you manage to get your shit together. . . you know. . . our democracy, and all. Just sayin’.
That is, I’m just sayin’ what She might be thinkin’ (and sayin’). I am in no position to predict any actual outcome, but it’s hard to imagine any winning moves by the Harris & Walz team in actual play-by-play. In case you have forgotten amid all the week-long laughter and euphoria, there are important national issues to discuss about how to manage the malevolent leviathan the federal government has become, and many dilemmas and threats the people face. And there are very different records of each team’s views on these things, party by party.
Some of that discussion could happen in the (so far) one scheduled September 10 debate. If Mr. Trump can manage to be polite, he can press Kamala Harris to explain herself on things like the wide-open border, failure to negotiate with the Russians to end the Ukraine War, her party’s antipathy to public safety, her party’s promotion of gender identity insanity, its Gestapo-style lawfare operations, its endless hoaxes, and its disgraceful documented efforts to censor free speech. The record is pretty clear on all of that, and there’s a fair chance that Ms. Harris can’t possibly explain it away. Or laugh it off.
Mr. Trump has requested two more head-to-head debates, which Ms. Harris apparently wants to forego. Mr. Trump has come up with an excellent alternative: two “town hall” format appearances in which he fields questions from citizens, or from news reporters, or some combo of both. That would be much to his advantage, without Ms. Harris on stage to defend her positions — or, more likely, to dodge any coherent reply by repeating “racist racist racist,” and laughing her head off.
That is, if she even remains the nominee. Let’s see how it goes this week leading to the convention. For instance, if she and Mr. Walz can still weasel out of taking any questions from the news media. Or whether the White House (remember “Joe Biden” still lives there) and his blob compadres can engineer a major escalation into world war, to take everybody’s mind off the election race. Or if any tremors of apprehension emanate from the delegate corps packing their rolly-bags for the dreaded party confab in Chicago. You have to kind of wonder if they’re bringing any riot gear.
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