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Liberals anonymous: The reason for right

By Xanadu Xero | RAW STORY COLUMNIST

This may surprise some of you, but last night I realized that I’m a Republican!

As I gazed up at the dry, brown sky — smog filching star and moon light — it occurred to me that, in fact, pollution is not really the Mr. Nastypants it’s made out to be. Pollution is Progress’ l’il buddy!

Let’s keep it real here: only snob-butts and girly-men (rhymes with ‘FEMME-ocrats’) actually want to eat fish. Ocean swimming gets sand up your whoopsie. Yuck. Yeah, I’ve seen photos of mutated frogs but I’ve seen mutated organic tomatoes. As for those deformed kids the New York Times likes to trot out… before we blame the Progress family, let’s shake those Welfare hos off the crack pipes, shall we?

I used to call myself an ‘Independent.’ This meant, to me, that I would consider each issue singly and form an opinion my own damn self, without a party’s guiding light. What a moron. I mean, who the fuck am I?

People need rock-ribbed contexts or society will fall. It’s now been proven that planets circle other stars. If I were still a bovine Independent, I would conclude that there are probably extra-galactic civilizations out there. Thank God clergymen in dresses set me straight. I still wonder why Jesus is always white if he was Middle Eastern, but that’s neither here nor there.

Everyone knows, save the deluded themselves, that ‘Independent’, in any context, means ‘Loser’. For example:

Independent Film – no money, no audience.
Independent Press – ditto squared, with gag-me graphics.
Independent Spirit (usually female) – unmarried, wacko, bad body, no money.
Declaration of Independence – like, soooooo over!

To wit, here’s a piece of the D of I (D.U.I. is one letter away) and excuse the freaky English (Colonybonics?):

“…governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed… whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it…”

But no one does. Leftys bitch and whine, but its, like, all blogs, no action. I guess that liberal types, really, just lack mother-love or something. They marinate in outrage, make Dumbo Dubya jokes at mojito ‘Bushwhacks’ and act all superior, like their shams don’t stink.

Kerry doesn’t roll up sleeves, sweat, or put on a Texas accent. What a Nancy-Boy. I just can’t see him masturbating in Yale’s Skull and Bones coffin. His hair – what’s with the yeast, man? I think I could take him down in two seconds with one knee to the groin.

I’m tired of being an underdog. I’m tired of shopping ‘Last Call!’ sales. I want to know God knows I’m right. I’m tired of cheering the losing team. “It’s the journey, not the destination…” Blah, blah, blah. Hey, Buddha, if you do low-carb you’ll lose the gut.

9/15/2004: 10 A.M. So excited! A new life’s dawn.

I called Bush/Cheney headquarters to see how I could help out. They suggested that I first ‘re-program’ at a Liberals Anonymous meeting. Unlike that lame Anarchy thing I went to at a gang turf drug park, the LA (apt initials) meetings are held at the Beverly Hills Hotel, with a buffet.

And the best part – its free! Well, paid for by the teeniest little nip out of the public school lunch budget. Teeny tiny.

9:38 P.M. Just got back. Here’s the dope — I mean 411:

The place was packed, pink-lit by vast chandeliers, and a contrite crowd it was: Kids who had had their fun (Leftys are easier lays) and now wanted to insure their inheritance. Employees who yearned to play golf with the boss. Prostitutes who wanted to change careers and use their honed skills in business. Teachers who ached to feel proud of illiterate teens. Those whose jobs had been outsourced abroad and, frankly, just needed a meal.

I was late and missed the Rev. Anglo White’s opening sermon, but I understand it was a rousing allocution about how all of earth’s wondrous Worker Honeybees are female, how they all can juggle kids plus jobs… and how, if they can do it without men, money or a golden faith in the Lord… we can too.

When the Rev. asked new pilgrims to declare themselves, I stood up and said, “Hi. I’m Xanadu Xero, and I’m a Liberal.”

“Hi, Xanadu!” the crowd roared back. It felt good.

We opened then our Hymnals and sang, “Less Government Includeth Not The Patriot Act”, “Yea, Invade Thee Lands For Naught” and my fave, with a jammin’ beat, “Let Them Eat Cake With Poisons Banned From Europe For Thy Gain.”

Next, the Rev. introduced ‘Brother’ Kennedy P. Jones, who apologized for his first name, to cooing “awwws” and applause. He was a proud young man, white as night (in Norway in summer).

Brother Jones, an Alabaman, had strayed from his Christian roots when he moved to L.A. He fell from Grace and tried marijuana and — unlike that horny, bulb-nosed, Harlem haunting liberal Whoozits — declared with courage that he had inhaled not once… but three times.

Said inhalation seized the brain of Brother Jones. It peeled like a leper’s skin and flamed out urges — vise-like, taunting, cackling — from the pith of Satan’s dank, black heart… to have congress with females without the covenant of marriage.

Afterwards, collapsed in shame, down a well of sorrow, Brother Jones heard the voice of his God, and He said this:

“Pharmaceuticals, my sheep, will also buzz yo’ ass, and they are righteous. Pay well for All-American prescriptions. Profits and tax will praise your wise Elders, ergo Yours Truly, ergo your sinning soul. Remember, ‘lucre’ is ‘sucre,’ which is ‘sugar’ in French.”

The crowd was in tears.

After a super fun ‘recovery break’ where we threw darts at a big screen of Abraham Lincoln, Rev. White again commanded the stage.

“When the liberal enemies of this country say to you, (sing-song:) ‘But Iraq haaad no Weapons of Mass Destruction,’ your answer is, ‘Ah – but they had the potential.’”

I’m not sure what was wrong with me. I was tired from throwing darts and wasn’t thinking. I stood up. “But Reverend” I said. All eyes zapped my way. “Dozens of countries have the ‘Potential’. Should we invade them all?

I then truly understood the saying, “Loose Lips Sink Ships,” because I, Ms. Doofus Flapjaw, was sinking my own. The crowd hissed like hungry cobras.

“What was that??” the Reverend sneered. Suddenly, I felt afraid. Clergy are, after all, God’s Made Men.

“I… I just thought that you might explain… I mean, it could appear, you know, to the uneducated, that there might be some nefarious reason for… you know…” I felt very small. “…Invading…?”

“Get out oh ye tramp of little Faith!” bellowed the Rev, his words a stormy gale.

“AMEN!” the crowd yelled.

Call me Ishmaela. I fled. No one would even validate my parking.

Back home, post-mescal, I lay down in my closet, bereft.

My future was clear. No A-List Oscar parties. No Bahamian bank accounts. No spreads in Gourmet extolling my hostess skills. No private planes. No baseless optimism. No unequivocal certainty. Fuck.

What Would Jesus Have Done?

“WELL, I WOULD HAVE LEFT THE MEETING, ASSHOLE…” a deep voice filled the air like a thunderclap, with a force that shook to the core of the earth - “AS SOON AS I WALKED IN.”

You can write to Xanadu Xero at xanadu@rawstory.com.

Xanadu also cordially invites you to join the Raw Story Forums and visit her fiefdom, The Raw Bar, to discuss these topics, any other damn thing, or just bitch and talk trash. You can also view an archive of her columns by clicking here.