BILL COPE/OPINION
GLOATING ON AIR Election analysis to a nutshell
“Cope, you must be desiccated.” “Desi-what?” Four days gone, and I come home to Red squatting on my front steps. He says he got there just before I pulled in, but I don’t believe him. There was quite a clutter of McRib wrappers and Mountain Dew cans scattered about, and I suspected he’d been there since the day I left. “Dessicated? Ain’t that what I mean? It’s how you must feel after the Tea Party kicked your socialistic patooties all over the U. S. and A?” “I think you mean devastated, don’t you, Red? Desiccated is how mummies get. All dried up and juiced out.” “Then I got the right word after all. You look purty dang dried up and juiced out to me.” “Oh yeah? Listen, you’d look all dried up and juiced out too if you’d just spent six hours on the road. And don’t lie, Red … have you been here since the election, waiting to gloat in my face?” “Well whose face was I supposed to go gloat in, Cope? You’re the only dang Dem’crat I know.” “That’s because I’m the only dang Democrat who’ll have anything to do with you. Now why are you here? I’m tired, my butt hurts and the last thing I want to do right now is listen to you. Or any other Republican, for that matter.” “Wull since’n your last two columns were zipped up afore time, I ain’t got the pleasure yet of hearing your wrap-up on hows come your side got thumped so good.” “What’s there to say? How’s this: On Nov. 2, 2010, roughly 42 million Americans stomped their feet, held their breaths and threw a hissy fit, mostly to show how pissed and peeved they are that the economy is still in crummy shape and how they want it to change right now or I’ll just scream!!!, and the number of voters who felt that way came out to roughly 3 million more than the number of voters who didn’t, excluding the roughly 126 million voters who didn’t bother to vote, being either too lazy, too self-involved, too ignorant or apathetic or stupid, and therefore, for the zillionth time in the nation’s history, the balance of power shifted perceptibly from one side to the other, and now, the people whose insane policies brought us this crummy economy are once again in control of many aspects of our governance, which means they’d better do something pee-dee-cue to fix the mess they made, which they can’t because all they know how to do is screw things up, not how to un-screw them, which means that in two more years, another batch of pissed, peeved voters will stomp their feet, hold their breaths and perceptibly shift the balance of power again, and eventually either something will work or it won’t, which would mean that America will continue on the downhill path WWW. B OISEWEEKLY.C O M
that leads to the shithouse of history, where it’s been headed since the day Ronald Reagan took office in 1981 … and there, Red, is my election wrap-up. Happy?” “Whoopy-do, I am honoraried. Mister OhSo-Smarmy-Pants Cope has cast me perks of wisdom. Please, Mister Old Bitterhead Crazy Bird, elucidate me more on hows your elitist intellect is so superior to little ol‘ mine.” “Jesus, Red. You’re starting to sound like that dip who leaves a comment online after almost every column.” “Which dip you mean, Cope? By my count, there’s three of ’em what are purdy regular with their disagreeablenesses.” “I used to think that, too. But over time, I’ve seen how they all write in the same insipid way, using the same stale cut-and-paste insults and arguments you know good and well they lift from somewhere else, and how they’re always stroking each other on how clever they are, and how they share a common comprehension level, which registers somewhere between shallow and nonexistent. But most of all, I noticed how often they leave a comment within minutes of one another, and I got to wondering if there are really three of them, or if it’s just one idle bore commenting under three monikers. You know … like in that movie where the last few Foreign Legion guys prop dead soldiers up on the walls to fool the enemy into thinking there was something formidable going on? Beau Geste.” “Gesundheit. Sos you don’t believe there really is that feller ‘dlb’ what hates you so much? Or that ‘Paddywack Good Dog?’” “Red, it’s impossible for me to believe in anyone who hides behind fake names. ‘dlb,’ for instance … it seems obvious to me that ‘dlb’ is short for ‘dingleberry,’ but what sort of person would call himself ‘dingleberry?’” “So outta the three of ’em, which one do you think is real?” “None of them. ‘Goodyboy,’ ‘Dinglepatience,’ ‘Berrybike’ ... they just represent interchangeable units of dullness. My money says they all boil down to one sad-sack who flops out of bed every Wednesday morning and tries to give some significance to his drab life by leaving another load of the same-old, same-old in the comment feature. Do you see anything real about that?” “Dang, Cope. What if’n you’re wrong and they really are different fellers? Ain’t ya’ worried they’ll be mad at you?” “Pfft. That would just mean there are three sad-sacks instead of one. And believe me, I’ve had better people than that mad at me. Now hows about you pick up your trash and scoot.” “Ain’t you interested in what I think of your election wrap-up?” “Red, surely you don’t mean to tell me that after all these years, you still haven’t figured out I don’t give a damn what you think?”
BOISEweekly | NOVEMBER 17–23, 2010 | 7