Convention post mortem

I watched as much of the Democrats’ freak show last week as I could stomach, which wasn’t much. I somehow made it through Jennifer Granholm’s bizarre unhinged rant; shook my head in dismay at the spectacle of convention participants gushing about how thrilled they were to belong to the government, and how eager they were to outlaw corporate profits; and was stunned when at least half the delegates voted three times to keep God out of their platform. I was not enough of a masochist to listen to Michelle Obama’s fairy tales; you have to draw the line somewhere.

But the time I felt most as if I were in the Twilight Zone was when I watched the same crowd that had cheered enthusiastically for the contraceptive queen Sandra Fluke, NARAL president Nancy Keenan, and Planned Parenthood president Cecile Richards  — not to mention impeached former president, pathological liar, and serial womanizer Bill Clinton — bow their heads reverently while Cardinal Timothy Dolan offered a benediction that totally contradicted everything their convention and their party stood for.

The Bard of Murdock sums it up:

Of course I booed the deity;
Including God was wrong.
And then I booed Jerusalem
And sang a drinking song.

I raised a glass to 44,
The savior of our times.
I cursed the reign of 43,
And cursed again his crimes.

I cheered for little Sandra Fluke,
Our finest legal mind,
Before I fired up my bong
And started to unwind.

And when our favorite, Bubba, spoke
It fired up the crowd,
He’s such a brazen, shameless rogue,
We couldn’t be more proud.

But reproductive politics
Was our convention theme,
And Charlotte was, for all of us,
A Democratic dream.

For further enlightenment:

The Charlatans of Charlotte, by David Catron

The Party of Abortion, by Jonathan V. Last

Clinton Trumps God, by Burt Prelutsky

How to Screw Up a Convention, by Victor Davis Hanson

5 Responses to Convention post mortem

  1. Fritz says:

    Watching the Dems in convention (or anywhere) is above and beyond the call of duty. You deserve a medal for enduring what must have been torture.


    • I’ll admit that while suffering through Billy Boy’s interminable disquisition, there were moments when I was tempted to call Amnesty International. But I didn’t watch either Barry or Michelle, and I didn’t watch very much of Sandra Fluke or Cecile Richards or Nancy Keenan either. The truth is that Jennifer Granholm’s outlandish little piece of performance art had me so weirded out that I couldn’t even think of trying to watch the Obamas — there wouldn’t be enough painkillers in the state of Wisconsin to get me through an ordeal like that.


  2. It was a real mish mash of doublespeak, lies, and also more yelling than necessary–Ted Strickland was speaking in ALL CAPS. Red wine and Twitter got me thru it; half the time I wasn’t even listening.



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