It is the stuff of nightmares. You hear the shabby shuffle of their somnambulant stutter and your skin begins to crawl. To see their haunted hollow eyes on the cable news shows taking no notice of their surroundings is a spiral straight into terror. The worst part is the cries of the children as they cower behind couches, hands over their ears blocking out the monotonous intonations of the mind-numbing mantra: “Tax Cuts. Tax Cuts. Tax Cuts.” They are the Tax-Cut Zombies from the Planet No!, and they are not of this earth. Okay, maybe they are, but they sure don’t live in the real world.
Citizens of America, stay in your homes. The Minority leadership unleashed their legions of virtual undead to battle the White House’s economic-stimulus package with a soul sapping single-mindedness, and they’re still out there. “Tax cuts…good. Spending…bad.” The slogan echoes mournfully off of marble as the empty husks of conservative humanity stumble through the halls of Congress with heavy, plodding steps and outstretched arms, lurching from microphone to microphone.
It is a purely defensive tactic borne of panicky desperation as the GOP recoils from the horror of their first Congressional-Executive confrontation in 14 years lacking relevance. In the House, they stood an impenetrable wall of flesh, with not a single vote for the bailout plan coming from their ranks. And the only three senators to cross the aisle were the two ladies from Maine, who in the privacy of their own homes are rumored to dress up as Democrats, and Arlen Specter, who pulled a Blagojevich, trading his support for inclusion of a pet project. But a good pet project. As opposed to all those bad pet projects. Which get called pork. By the pigs. Go figure.
In a courageous attempt to find common ground, Barack Obama risked infection from the mindless drones, meeting them en masse; yet not a single soul was able to summon the will to escape from the voodoo spell placed by Rep. John Boehner (R- Hell). He’s a powerful sorcerer who fuels his entranced hordes by reading aloud fragments of the sacred ancient texts of Ronald Reagan. No one knows how these pitiable wretches slid into these depths of depravity. It might have been their penchant for playing hardball and a simultaneous refusal to wear helmets.
Repelled by light and logic and with no thought for food, water, or self-preservation through long-range sustainable employment opportunities via shovel-ready infrastructure investment, the dull, unthinking, mindless drones sense their strength is in numbers and clutch together in a pack through media-land, marching to the beat of a non-existent drummer. The most frightening thing is not the glee they take in their current state, but how good they are at it. Like they were born to drag their feet.
But even though the Chief Executive may have successfully dodged the slow moving, reanimated ghouls that are the Tax Cut Zombies from the Planet No!, his learning curve has barely begun to arc. For soon he will inevitably encounter the dark forces of equally if not more terrifying inhuman threats such as: the Lobbyist Vampires of Capitol Hill. American Werewolves in Baghdad. The Ethanol Children of the Corn. Nightmare on Wall Street. The Return of the Son of the Bride of Frankenstein’s Social Security Meltdown. The Texas Oil Profits Chainsaw Massacre. The Night of the Living General Accounting Office Estimates. And Aliens 12,000,000. In Congress, no one can hear you negotiate. No, they can’t.
Will Durst is a political comic who writes sometimes. This is one of them.