The Armpit Of The Universe

National Review On-line, in its continuing effort to bring the crazy, is inflicting someone called David Kahane on the public, because they don't have enough idiots on the payroll. His schtick is to sometimes pretend to be liberal to let the right know what is in store for them. But let's let him speak for himself.

I woke up this morning with a song on my lips. Well, not exactly a song — more like a tune, a song without words. I’m sure you know it. It goes something like this: ha-huh-ha-huh-ha-huh-ha-HUH . . . ha-huh-ha-huh-ha-huh-ha-huh . . . ha-huh-ha-huh-ha-huh-ha-HUH . . . ha-huh-ha-huh-ha-huh-ha-huh . . . I’m referring, of course, to the music of His Serene Highness, the Emperor Barack Hussein Obama II, who after a brief two-week absence from the national scene that more or less coincided with the beginning of Ramadan brought his road-show version of Chicago to a joint session of Congress Wednesday night. They say you can go to the well once too often, but as far as BO2 is concerned, you can never go too often to the well of the Senate or the House.

I can never get enough of the Punahou Kid. That saturnine visage, occasionally punctuated by the faux Bobby Bonilla smile; the Islamic finger-wagging, as if he had studied oratory at a mosque in Indonesia or something, the muezzin singsong of the cadences, not quite white and not quite authentically black, either. I love the way he imperiously summons the feckless Senate eunuchs and the cannon-fodder congressmen to his mock-SOTU performances. I love seeing Michelle, scowling and glowering from her perch like Madame Defarge at the guillotine, clicking her knitting needles as she waits for the next head to fall into the basket. I love seeing Annunciata d’Alesandro Pelosi — that’s Maerose Prizzi to you — as the Lady in Red, her face frozen, the only sign of life the blinking of her adoring eyes. I love seeing John McCain and his fetching companion, Lindsey Graham, smiling like a couple of rubes at a three-card-monte game, so pleased are they to be patted on the head like the good little losers they are. And I love the way that, afterward, the press corps, conducted by Jake Lingle, immediately dances around like puppets on a string, mouthing the words to “The Press Conference Rag” as Rahm Emanuel delicately pirouettes in the background with a red Spanish rose between his teeth and a dagger behind his back.

[more craziness]

My friends, our long march through the institutions is finally over. There is no aspect of what we hopefully will soon be referring to as the former United States of America — the “Supreme Soviets of America” has a much better ring to it, no? — that Hussein does not want to fundamentally change: the rapacious, malevolent private sector, the wrong-headed notions of individual “freedom” (the Education Department will soon fix that), any reference to this ever having been a Christian country, and that wicked charter of negative liberties, the Constitution, especially the so-called Bill of Rights. Imagine allowing anyone to say anything about political figures at any time, or owning a firearm, or, Gaia forbid, reserving to the states all powers not specifically enumerated to the federal government. In the interests of a happier, poorer, less polluting, freer America, this stuff has got to go.

And there's more:

Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I’m currently working on yet another sequel to The Manchurian Candidate and I’ve come up with this crazy notion that, seven years after 9/11, the American people elected a man they had not even heard of a few years before, a man whose campaign was handled by a red-diaper baby, a man who was part Arab-African, the son of a Muslim, the circumstances of whose nativity are still unclear, whose college applications and transcripts have never been seen, who appears to have no friends from his days at Punahou, Occidental, Columbia, and Harvard. Heck, Hussein even went to Georgetown and made them cover up Jesus. And yet the enchanted Washington press corps finds Michelle’s bare arms and the Obamas’ new puppy — oddly enough, named BO — of far more journalistic interest. Talk about the dogs that don’t bark in the nighttime, the daytime, or any time!

Or, to put it another way, if BHO II actually were the nutbag Right’s worst nightmare, a crypto-Muslim Marxist bent on the destruction of the Principal Enemy, as our friends the Soviets used to call us, how would he act any different

And more:

As you know, the only way I can understand current events is to do what eminent thumb-suckers like Frank Rich do, and that is to frame everything in a facile entertainment context so I can score cheap political points without having to do any, you know, heavy lifting.

[yap]

Being There II. A mild-mannered, well-spoken homeless person with the improbable name of Barack Hussein Obama II (Denzel Washington) takes the country by storm after he’s discovered aimlessly wandering the streets of Chicago by a shady newsman named Jake Lingle (Robert Downey Jr.). Over a couple of beers, Lingle bets one of his former colleagues at the Chicago Tribune, David Axelrod (Dr. Phil, in his big-screen debut), that he can’t get “Bambi” — who can’t remember a thing about his past at Columbia and Harvard — elected dogcatcher. Thus challenged, the campaign consultant goes to town, rounding up a coalition of red-diaper babies, radicals, terrorists, gangsters and the Daley political machine — the dreaded “Outfit” — to turn Obama first into a state senator, then a U.S. senator, and, finally… president of the United States! Before you say it’s too far-fetched to be believable, remember — it could happen!

It's all about small government, you see, not racism or mindless hatred. They have signs and everything.