Not so long ago, the brilliant point was raised that all the good things in America start at the dinner table. So, in honor of such a poignant observation, I thought I would stop on in to a hypothetical, imaginary dinner table (paid for with taxpayer dollars/lobbyist kickbacks, of course) that had just been placed in the front of the House chambers lectern!
At the head of the ornate cherry dinner table, we have the Republicans. They are slightly graying businessmen and conservative-religious types, drinking whiskey while smoking cigarettes. I can tell that they’re feeling a little bloated and stuffed after five nights straight of the grand three course meal: a lovely executive salad, followed by prime rib au judiciary and some legislative ice cream logs. They’re still saying grace before every meal, but they seem to be tipping the staff (and the scales) a little more conservatively as of late. Although flaming-Baghdad pudding used to be a delicious treat, it has lost its appeal. It seems like the liberals stopped crying like sissies every time the flames shot up. Which brings us to the next seat to the left.
A young cadre of college-age intellectuals are busily tapping away on their keyboards, blogging about the meal (sort of like me!) and sipping on soy lattes (eww!). Their feverish eyes look like they would bulge out of their heads if not held back by their coke-rim glasses. They are busy trying to snuff out every cigarette bud flicked at them by the Republicans, but these Democrats seem to be eyeing something a little stronger out of the corner of their eyes. As far as their meals, they’ve resorted to eating cheap Mexican burritos and an occasional bit of American-grown corn. They are saving the oil and keep chattering something about fuels, but they’re way too hungry to make a whole lot of sense right now. Besides, the bitter lemons in their drinks keep making them pucker up and look kind of stupid.
(As I finish typing that last sentence, one of the geek-lings wanders over and starts eyeballing the screen. Fearing character assassination, I laugh nervously, then excuse myself to go use the bathroom.)
In my new setting, I find a number of people standing at the sink. I say to them, “Hey, guys! Why don’t you all come and have some dinner?” The response I got made me lose some of my appetite. “You need a reservation, money and personal connections to eat in there.”
(At this point, feeling genuinely bad for them, I invite them all out to a bar and grill down the street that I know of.)
In my third setting of the story, I sat down at a table with all of these interesting fellows, to get to know their stories.
First, I turned to my left. There was a young gentleman in a pleasant green shirt, made out of fruit rinds. He had ordered a very leafy vegetarian salad. He ate pretty quickly, largely because he had a Gay Drug-Addicted Flag-Burners Youth (GADFLY) rally to attend on behalf of bringing the troops home. Before he left, he was kind enough to order me a large, heaping plate of organically-bred starfish, which I quickly disposed of by passing it to…
The Libertarian of the gang. He’ll eat anything, so long as it isn’t too big and doesn’t cost a lot of money. Let me tell you, he sure could pack it in. At one point, he even ordered some marijuana-laced whale fat, but it never showed up. He didn’t tip at all, but instead told the waiter how nice it would be if he were to save up his own money and go to an Ivy League school, rather than live off of the generosity of others. Needless to say, somebody didn’t get dessert.
Then again, somebody did! The flashy anarchist in the torn-up jeans sure did, just like he got the meat, potatoes, cash register and the waiter’s credit card. I never actually got to speak with him, as he didn’t actually believe that anything should commit him to talking with others.
The communist didn’t stick around too long, either. He actually offered to take my meat, sell it to the people, have them cut it up and give it back to me for a nominal fee later on. Then, he offered me a pretty decent amount of cash for my silverware, saying it could be used on tanks. When I asked him what he meant, he quickly explained by telling me how the people’s glorious democratic leaders had decided to give them peace and freedom by blah blah blah. I just sold them to him and regretted I had ever asked. Then, he thought he’d head out so he could make it back in time for his mandatory newspaper-reading session. Ironically, he got stuck in line behind people arguing over how many napkins they would need for the next four years, and didn’t leave for hours afterward.
That left just me and the socialist at the table. I really needed a breather after such a bizarre daydream, so I imagined him sending all of his chicken nuggets over to Bosnia to feed the poor who had no chicken nuggets. In a final irony, he passed out from starvation and was driven to the hospital, where he received no-cost healthcare.
Thus ended one of my weirder analogies on government and ideologies.