[img]1|left|||no_popup[/img] If the industrious Henry Waxman had been elected President last November instead of the irredeemably amateurish Swish Obama, putative opposition to radical, arcane healthcare reform would have been smoothly smothered into submission by now beneath an iron blanket of artfully constructed, adroitly imposed silence.
Private and public protestations would have been noiselessly outlawed in the first week of President Waxman’s term.
Unanimous serenity would grace our land.
Instead, sensitive Americans are being forcibly subjected to the fascistic rabble that extreme right-wingers are stirring in the vacant hearts of the likeminded.
None of the populist nonsense of traditional town hall meetings that is presently poisoning the populace but amusing the peasants the breadth of the land ever would have been allowed to leak above ground under Foxy Waxy.
In the process of winning 18 consecutive Congressional elections in one of America’s hopelessly left-wing districts, from Beverly Hills to Malibu, Foxy Waxy was one of few Democrats who learned the elusive science of drop-dead crowd control.
More rare than trapping lightning in a thimble, this talent for merciless muzzling of the masses comes in especially handy when the arrogant unwashed occasionally rise up just because they have decoded you and your backroom methods.
Worse, the right-wing mobs are gaining on F.W., as he was called initially, by the day.
If Foxy Waxy were occupying the principal high chair in the Oval Office, foolish right-wingers would be demonstrating against their Dear Leader at their peril.
Such disgustingly anti-social outbursts would have been treated by the fair-minded left-wing media as more old-fashioned than Victorian residences, more out of step than a family of 10 touring Manhattan on horseback, just one horse, at 3 in the morning.
Beware of Spies
As you may have suspected, dear reader, the solitary reason for configuring these Caesaresque scenarios about Foxy Waxy is his perfumed arrogance, an attitudinal disease common among males of his sharply subdued height.
For those who cared to look closely enough this morning, the wily Foxy Waxy was furiously shoveling a product with an unknown name at the bottom of a mudpile while special guests were arriving for his widely unheralded Town Hall meeting on the campus of UCLA.
In his 35th year in Congress, Foxy Waxy has wired the system so near the strangulation point that not even a national uprising disturbs absent hairs that formerly dotted his head.
F. W. had hair in the long ago days when he was more of a democrat than a Democrat.
Three weeks before his 70th birthday, Foxy Waxy has accumulated enough power so that nothing happens that he does not will to happen, even when the masses appear to be closing in on him.
While his classless colleagues were calling conservatives dirty names for affronting the Mess-iah (emphasis on the first syllable), the Littlest Big Man crawled under the table to be alone with his brilliant mind. He started devising devious tactics for how he would conduct his own Town Hall meeting in a summer of great discontent.
The first commandment was:
No announcements, anytime, any place. No paper trail. No damning evidence. Deny if confronted.
Four hundred seats were reserved in Korn Convocation Hall in the northeast corner of the campus for the Waxman Far, Far Out-of-Town Hall meeting. However, if you did not know the password, you did not enter — just the way Foxy Waxy designed the thuggishly controlled moment so that his message, once safely inside, would not be diluted by the riff-raff.
Dozens of polite, sign-waving demonstrators from both sides of the healthcare showdown came to Korn more than an hour early. Because they were almost identical in appearance and restrained conduct, their impact was dubious.
Imagine Foxy in a Powdered Wig
Probably was a good thing Foxy Waxy did not live in colonial times. If Gen. Washington did not know the password, King George would be in charge of our welfare instead of the Mess-iah.
