Last night I attended a party of thieves, men who sit in their ivory-tower offices deciding the fate of a nation. The bubbling champagne, tipped back from crystal glasses throughout the room, reminded me of the transitory nature of politics. The enigmatic rise to the top, and POP.
My attendance was requested by the senior Senator from Pennsylvania, an ostentatious elitist, hoping his decision on the economic stimulus bill would not lead to his political demise. His invite stated “Please come support me in my attempts to make this nation better.”
The black and white tuxedo I wore, epitomized my view on the monetary issues of the country, however, I added a colored handkerchief in my breast pocket as a “doffing-of-the-cap” to compromise. Traveling the room, bathed in the fragrant scents of pragmatism and insight, and hinting with the aroma of side-splitting humor, I shook hands with America’s leaders. The fingernails here were clean, a testament to the false labors promoted by these purveyors of lies and deceit. To converse with these men required keeping one hand on my back pocket and the other on my chest, both protecting my vital interests of cash and compassion. At any moment, either could be ripped from my being as I stared into the Cheshire grins of these devious delegates.
At ten o’clock, the Senator moved to an improvised dais made of a leather chair. His words drifted over the audience, like a hot air balloon, off course, searching for a safe pasture of empathy. As I watched him deflate, I felt momentarily saddened by our system, one which asks our leaders to represent our views, and then condemns them for making an honest attempt. Of course, that sadness disappeared when the speaker closed his speech with an entreaty for an endowment to his campaign.
As the night wore on, I felt dirty, only not the way one feels after a long day of gardening, or sitting at a little league game, covered in the dusty film of an un-tamped infield - that is the sort of grime that comes off with a hot shower and lots of scrubbing. No, I felt dirty in the way an adulterer feels after leaving a brothel on a hot night, as if I’d just taken the last seat on a bus while a seventy-year old woman with a bad hip struggled to stand against the winding turns of life’s traffic. There are no showers for the scum of unscrupulousness.
I drank too much last night. I quenched my thirst with red wine, chic champagne, and failed policy. This morning I am suffering.My hangover is the wrath of grapes.