THE SPEW THEORY

Okay, you're in. Part of that exclusive club or organization you so wanted to be part of, for years. Their first big gala of the year is coming up, and its at the nicest facility in the county - and the next one. You've bought that new outfit you couldn't quite afford, and you've even thought about renting a car - no, a limo. You arrive at the event, having counted the slow plodding days leading up to it with intense, almost childlike anticipation. You get inside, and almost immediately, despite the huge crowd of the elegantly coiffed and impeccably dressed, something seems - or rather smells, amiss. As you approach the buffet table you stumble upon, hell let's be honest, you nearly fall into it, the largest pile of animal (you hope it's animal anyway) excrement you've ever seen. Its there in the room, if it didn't fill your nostrils with densely packed waves of nauseating putresences you'd expect carver/sculpters in there, making some artistic creation out of it, like a sand castle, or a bust of the guest of honor. Strangely, no one else at the party is looking at it, or for that matter even seemingly smelling it. How can this be?

You back away, and turn your back, start to recognize friends, and be recognized by others, and slowly, deliberately try to put the pile out of your mind. You know that you gotta eat, so you'll be having to contend with it again at some point, but for now, you can nonchalantly act like the dunghill is not really there. But then you begin noticing something else. Never in large numbers, but guests seem to float out of the ballroom, stay gone for awhile, and then come back in a bit more disheveled. In fact, some appear to have taken ill outside - damn that looks like they hurled out there - and still come back into the room to work the crowd, orthotic-perfect smile ablaze, eager to pump the arms and press the flesh, but damn, they're kind of reeking now, too, with a different olfactory assault, courtesy of their own in house digestery. is THIS the club you really wanted to join? What a choice, stay here and act like its all good, enjoy the music and the company and enjoy those pulsating whiffs of stench that are swirling about the ballroom - the surreality of it all seems crazy. Yet there is the alternative - make a bee line for the exit, wiser perhaps, but certainly possessed of a cleaner, more pristine source of air to breathe far from the barfing crowd?

This, gentle readers, is the plight of today's Republican party. Ignore the big steaming turd in the room. When it gets really bad, go outside the party and spew bile - preferably on the first prominent non-Republican you can find. If you miss and gerb a little of it on yourself, no worries, come back into the ballroom. Nobody'll say anything to you about it. It'll be as if it's not even there, and your friends will still smile, pat your back and tell you how great you look. Pretty soon, the poo-stank will dissipate, and boy, doesn't that carving station look terrific!! And somebody else will clean up the cascading mess you and your guests have created outside.