Oh, Ashley

In one of her most recent meth-mouth ejaculations, Sarah Palin, the tundra termagant, decreed that a number of sitting Republican US senators shall soon have their heads cut off at the ballot box.

This fate they shall suffer because the witless Panzer Powder aficionado, and her confederates, have determined that said men are insufficiently committed to the complete and total destruction of the United States, in the name of Getting The Black Man.

One of the termagant’s targets was identified as Lindsey Graham, senior senator from the Confederate state of South Carolina.

Graham has long frenzied the nightriders galloping at the outer edges of the GOoPer herd of the unsane. This is first because he is a closeted gay man. And second because he is so often joined at the hip to John McCain. A loose cannon anathema to the nightriders, because he first primary-challenged once and future favorite son George II for the presidency (McCain’s campaign effectively scuttled right there in South Carolina, when Rove & Co let it be known (falsely) that McCain had fathered a black child; though such is a South Carolina tradition, see Strom Thurmond, it is one that is supposed to remain delicately concealed until after the white rapist’s death). And then, when McCain had his own shot at the presidency, he refused to center his campaign around the fact that his opponent was black, and therefore an unacceptable existential threat to all that is Good and Godly.

Graham periodically attempts to woo the nightriders by dragging his knuckles right down to the ground. Such as his July 2013 scratching and hooting that the United States should boycott the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia, because of “what the Russian government is doing throughout the world.”

And so, within hours of Palin recently mustering the riders, Graham was flapping across all the televisions and tubes in the land, thundering that he shall not allow the black man to appoint anyone to a job in the federal government until he, Graham, “gets some answers on Benghazi.”

Among an alarming number of Americans, no deaths to have occurred over the past ten years in the War on Terra matter worth a damn but for those of Christopher Stevens, US ambassador to Libya; Sean Smith, a foreign service information officer; and Glen Doherty and Tyrone Woods, a couple former serial killers for the US Navy, latterly employed as contract cowboys for some shadowy outfit that, to my knowledge, has to this day never been formally identified. All perished on September 11-12, 2012, when various and sundry Bad Brown People overran a US spy nest in Benghazi, Libya.

Almost immediately, the nightriders “knew” that the black man had that night bubbled up some popcorn, then sat there in the White House Situation Room, laughing and laughing, as he watched, in real-time, four Americans die in Libya. Or, alternatively, that the lazy, shiftless, shuffling, bumbling black man went off to bed without knowing or caring one whit what was going on in Benghazi—downing a couple 40-ouncers, and then hitting the sack, so he could get up early to go waste the (white) taxpayers’ money by playing basketball. Or, if you are Sean Klannity, you believe and promote both Realities at the same time.

They have been working like twelve bastards, the nightriders, over the past 13 months, to “prove” this. And Lindsey Graham, he has been there with the nightriders, out on point. Even screeching, at one memorable juncture, that, in re Benghazi, former Secretary of State Clinton II “got away with murder.”

The “answers on Benghazi” that Graham and Co. seek, these are that the black man, the wrong white woman, and whoever else doesn’t strike their fancy, are criminally complicit in the American deaths in Benghazi, and therefore they should be fried crispy in the electric chair.

This is how Graham intends to keep his Senate seat.

History teaches that there shall be no “answers” anytime soon forthcoming about Benghazi.

For, prior to Stevens, the last two serving US ambassadors killed were Adolph Dubs, ambassador to Afghanistan, slain in 1979 during a mammoth clusterfuck involving about 19 different Afghan clans with guns, the Russians, the Yanks, and who knows who all else; and Arnold Raphel, ambassador to Pakistan, who went down in a plane crash in 1988 that also ended the life of Pakistan President Zia ul-Haq.

Both these deaths remain shrouded in mystery, and nobody can reasonably say they know what the fuck went on there.

This is apparently because the killing of a US ambassador is a multi-universe event. In which portals of various alternative universes briefly and violently converge. And, after, no one but an omniscient being can successfully access all the information, now cabined off in all the again-separated universes, that might serve to “explain” things.

So, too: “Benghazi.”

The Raphel crash did result in A Case of Exploding Mangoes, a wonderfully wicked novel by Mohammed Hanif that trains a kaleidoscope on the event, “track[ing] at least two (and as many as a half-dozen) assassination vectors to their convergence in the plane crash, incorporating elements as diverse as venom-tipped sabers, poison gas, the curses of a scorned First Lady, and a crow impaired by an overindulgence of ripe mangoes.”

If Benghazi results in similarly worthy art, we shall have to be satisfied with that.

Meanwhile, there is Lindsey Graham.

I am not fully acquainted with the yeehaw that Palin & associates have settled on to challenge Graham. But since the man is a teabagger, I know with certainty that he is a racist and a lunatic.

The lunacy is manifest in the nimrod’s pronouncement that it is “God’s will” that he unseat Graham. While it is simply not possible to teabag without wedding oneself to the cross of racism.

The geek’s name is Lee Bright, which proves that the extraterrestrials who stage-managed the 2012 Republican primaries, are still fucking with Americans.

He is also manifestly a cracker. Which poses an interesting dilemma for the people of South Carolina.

Lindsey Graham is indubitably Ashley Wilkes, born again. The otherwise perfectly useless son, unfit for the really important things, like riding to the hounds or diddling cousins, but who can be depended upon to serve the Cause there in the legislature, keeping the Yankees at bay.

It is in their confederate genes, these people, to elevate the Ashley Grahams of their species to elected office.

Crackers, on the other hand, are supposed to till the ground, run amok in church handling snakes, and actually affix the rope to the necks of the Negroes, Catholics, and Commies identified by the nightriding aristocrats.

If a cracker is allowed into office, Embarrassment can result.

Indeed, the last time Southern voters indulged a spasm of crackers, it resulted in a certified lunatic, Earl Long—from the fabled, crazed Long clan—serving as governor of Louisiana. Not once. But three times.

Occasionally Long was compelled to run the state from the grounds of a mental institution.

In other areas of the nation, such a thing might be considered outre. But not down there in the land o’. There, perfectly Normal.

It is probable that, as the great wheel turns, Americans are returning to those days. The Ashley Grahams, they shall retire to the plantation, while people actually insane shall serve in their stead.

Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann, Ted Cruz, Lee Bright—these are not the sort of beings a prudent person would even allow in their home. Much less select to make decisions about their lives. But there you go. And here we are.