There in the antiseptic stillness of the coronary care unit. Wires and tubes. Monitors that bleep, tweet and hum. Quintuple bypass surgery was no fun. Neither was the heart attack leading up to it.
I am not young. My mind wanders and worries. What can I expect after such an egregious insult to such an aging body? Will I recover? Will I live?
In my post-surgical stupor I hear a voice from above. There is a vague vision of some kind, too. It appears that a giant Irish setter with a New York accent is accusing the Mexican people of sweeping across the U.S. border to pillage the citizenry. The humongous gourd dressed up like Shirley Temple is also suggesting Arizona Sen. John McCain, a Vietnam era prisoner of war, is even less of a hero than Robert Vaughn in The Magnificent Seven.
It occurs to me that Oxycodone is some really interesting stuff. And could I please have some more?
Slowly I begin to realize that I'm not merely zoning out. It's Donald Trump, the Bluto of the Republican Party, at the highest pitch of nonsensical bloviation.
And at last--a reason to live.
To you, perhaps the Republican presidential field looks like an exercise in democracy. But for columnists of a certain age who have had a peek into the hereafter, think of the current slate as sort of the Make-A-Wish Foundation for political scribblers.
It appears that while Trump was race-baiting his way across the country, one of the few initially willing to call out the Great Wizard of Weird was the one chap with even less of a chance of getting elected president, South Carolina Senator Lindsey Graham.
Other Republican hopefuls, when they weren't wringing their hands and staring at the ceiling, regarded Trump's bigoted and fact-challenged hysteria with all the outrage of having just discovered a fraternity brother had cheated at cribbage.
It took The Chump's perverted attack on McCain's distinguished war record and incredible bravery under the most brutal circumstances to finally have it dawn on them that it might be okay to openly suggest the make-believe emperor has no class.
Alas, Texas Senator Ted Cruz weaseled his way out of directly confronting the Old Yeller of the GOP, as if coming to the side of an unfairly belittled battle-scarred war hero was too heavy a lift. Forget Russia's Vladimir Putin. If this collection of 19th-hole barroom loudmouths can't take on a loopy television game show host for the bumptious, belching bully that he is, how would they deal with the Grand Duchy of Fenwick?
The hustings can be an elixir. I'm feeling better already at the prospect of taking my message to the people, just as soon as I can get my dog to stop chewing on my speech.
Editorial on 07/26/2015