The President Breaks His Thing
By L. Neil Smith
Exclusive to The Libertarian Enterprise
[Warning: those who berate me for "namecalling" -- and the couple who labeled me "foul-mouthed" for saying "hell" in the speech I gave last year in Texas -- won't care for this essay. They (or whoever they get to read the Enterprise to them) should skip past, to the next item.]
We all heard it on the radio this morning, or saw it on the the wake-up TV shows if we admit to watching them: while visiting with a golf-pro friend of his in balmy Florida, President Nosecandy fell down some stairs and hurt himself. Even AP couldn't resist: for once Bill has a chance to feel his own pain.
Surgeons say they plan to re-attach a tendon he damaged by drilling a hole in the First Kneecap -- a pleasant enough thought in and of itself -- having first anesthetically paralyzed the Perpetrator-in-Chief from the lovehandles down. Meaning that, for the first time in their twenty-odd years of married life, during that interval -- however brief -- Hillary will be able to trust him.
My first, unguarded reaction was, "Drunk again."
My wife's reaction (and what feckless poophead called them the gentler sex?) was, "Why the hell couldn't it have been a heart attack?" (Socialists who call themselves "liberals" should take warning: for sheer, flint-hearted meanness of spirit, Libertarians can run figure-eights around those gutless, spineless, bloodless, cojoneless flubadubs, the socialists who call themselves "conservatives".)
And speaking of figure-eights ...
By amazing coincidence (or does this qualify as synchronicity?) at about the time President Bozo was falling on his prat, I myself suffered a similar mishap, taking my third spill at the local ice arena in three full months of skating, falling (somehow) on my left knee and right elbow. The knee still hurts a bit this morning (as what doesn't when you're 50?) but the elbow is fine, and if I'd had the choice to make myself, that's how I'd have arranged it. I don't do much typing with my toes, no matter what my editors may tell you.
Almost the instant I fell, one of the disgustingly adroit young guardian angels (lower case) paid to hover over us all swooped by to ask if I was okay. With a hearty and swashbuckling laugh -- "Ha-HA!" -- I assured him manfully that I was, and struggled back to my feet. Although I was prostrate on the ice for all of 20 seconds, I didn't feel it necessary to hand the conn of The Libertarian Enterprise (NCC-1776) over to her Number One, Commander Boardman. America could sleep peacefully, and so could Yiing, for I was never off the job.
Of course exactly the same thing was said about William Milhouse Clinton, which led me to (what I'll pretend is) a startling thought. Here's a guy -- not me, nor my guardian angel, but President Buzz Windrip -- who's been caught ... er ... red-handed, selling out American foreign policy to the communist Chinese.
He's being assailed, even by his own, for renting the Lincoln bedroom to "contributors".
Sooner or later (not "if", but when) he's going to be sued for waggling the Executive Weenie at some poor helpless little state civil servant back in Arkylvania.
This is a poor excuse for a man, who's used the Bill of Rights as his own personal roll of toilet paper, and then attempted to flush it down the toilet altogether.
This is a poor excuse for a man who's morally and legally responsible for having murdered 80 guiltless individuals -- 22 of them children -- in Waco, Texas.
In short, this is a poor excuse for a man who makes Richard Nixon -- or Caligula, or Mad Ludwig of Bavaria, now that I mention it -- look downright statesmanlike.
Through it all, no measure of culpability seems to have touched him. They used to call Ronnie Raygun the "Teflon President". So what do you call this guy? Well, a homely old highschool expression about "slicker than snot on a doorknob" comes to mind. Remember that, next time you hear the phrase, "Slick Willie".
The undeniable fact is, if the Mena Marxist were invalided off the job, we'd all be immeasurably better off. Which led me to (what I'll pretend was) an even more startling thought: I challenge the sane portion of my readership (the office-holders and socialists who call themselves "liberals" that we're spamming don't count) to name any politician whom we wouldn't be better off without.
How about -- no, we'd be better off with him. Then how about old -- no, we'd be better off with him, too. I have it, how about -- well no, he died in 1826.
Who was it -- Mark Twain? Ambrose Bierce? Henry Mencken? -- who observed that "No man's life, liberty, or property is secure when the legislature's in session"?
That goes squared -- or possibly cubed -- for the President of the United States.
And believe it or not, friends, it's even more important to remember in connection with the Republican politicians that some of us are still foolishly counting on to rescue us (and this is what it comes down to, in the end) from themselves.
L. Neil Smith is the author of the bestselling The Lando Calrissian Adventures, the award-winning Pallas and The Probability Broach, and Bretta Martyn, forthcoming. Laissez Faire Books 1-800-326-0996.
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