Democrat Deer Stare into the Headlights of History

And thus the American Collectivist Party (aka Democrat) would wither to its small and wizened core of lesbian Wiccans, career child molesters, thieves, brigands, and polymorphous perverts.

Democrat Deer Stare into the Headlights of History
"I'm Walking Here. I'm Walking Here. I'm. . . ."

What can be going through a deer's mind just before the deer’s head goes through the windshield? The dazzle? Something so bright that it overwhelms the flight impulse which always comes before the fight reaction? Or is it just “Wha. . . ?”

The tendency of deer to freeze when caught in the sudden glare of an oncoming disaster is so well recognized that it has evolved into the familiar catchphrase; a phrase used for any life situation in which the threat is so overwhelming and sudden that no survival reaction is possible. Instead, the animal remains rooted in place -- a dead parrot nailed to its perch, as it were.

We now see this dazzled perch nailing acted out daily along the Information Highway where an increasingly large number of our fellow citizens have assumed this dazed position on the highway of history. Like many ruminants they seem surprisingly content to stand spot-welded to the tarmac as the glare of progressive ruin and the promise of Democrat destruction rolls towards them, air horn suspiciously silent.

Some people think the deer are not innocent when they step into the headlights. Some people think the deer seek out their dazzled drop into oblivion. I'm starting to agree with this stone cold estimate of their irreversible stupidity.

"What me worry?"

To ensure they can neither flee nor fight, our current cohort of glare-frozen furbutts has elected a government whose actions mirror theirs in a kabuki of cowardice -- a herd of Congressional and Senatorial Bambis, if you will. This part of the herd, as a reward for their obsessive compulsion towards embracing bankruptcy, the looting of the Constitution, the conversion of the military into eunuchs, the sanctification of institutionalized cowardice, and the worship of a drool-cup-filling President, is actually praised by the scribblers snorting among them.

The scribblers' praise extends to the President as he dodders about in his Depends to universal swooning while making manifest the policies of treason he promised, though none dare call it so. Throughout the history of the Republic, we've seen many popular delusions of the mob rise and capture the nation, but we've never seen the towering tsunami of the mutual admiration society madness rise this high before.

It is an unusual government that swears to preserve and protect the Constitution, and then slaps that document, perforated, on a roll and installs it in the stalls of Congressional toilets. It is an unusual government that promotes and passes policies of failure and defeat while prating "patriotism" to troops it long ago sold down the river.  Yet failure and defeat seem to be what the majority in the current administration and congress and their constituents desperately want. All while the Democrat deer dawdle out onto the asphalt and drowse with their slack drool lips dangling.

Perhaps the answer to what goes through the deer's mind as it stands in the beams is as simple as "a death wish;" a fate that they yearn for death as urgently as a bicycle messenger in New York City.

I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
                      — Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

After all, the membership of a party that has spent many decades worshipping death -- before birth and when obvious usefulness is finished -- must be more than "half in love with easeful death." To simply wish for death all around seems to be a simple next step for Democrats; those who never met a baby they did not want to kill in the womb -- or shortly thereafter. The current government must in turn love the death wish of its supporters. It figures that if some of the dead can help you get elected, more dead makes your job of governing that much easier.

Satan, the original progressive, informed Milton of this principle when he said,
                Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce
                To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
                Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n

Of course, much of the Democrat’s institutionalized death wish, and the culture of cowardice that both precedes and envelops it, is carefully camouflaged, hidden from the sight of the less-than-persuaded centrists, independents, and other Americans who might not be ready to follow the Democrats across the Styx and down into the hell of collectivism "done right, this time, trust us." The passionate promotion of death-in-life in political philosophies must always be hidden.  If it were not the American Collectivist Party (aka Democrat) would wither to its small and wizened core of lesbian Wiccans, career child molesters, thieves, brigands, and polymorphous perverts. After all, Democrats must, even while taking the country down the path to defeat and ruin, pretend that it only has the very best core American values at heart. It keeps the marks and the rubes from wising up, waking up, or blinking in the glare of the headlights.

In the annals of bunkum, it is axiomatic that once you get the rubes in the tent and take their money, you've gotta get the freshly plucked out of the tent in order to pack more marks in. This problem was first solved by the great American master of bunkum and bosh, P. T. Barnum at Barnum's American Museum:

At one point, Barnum noticed that people were lingering too long at his exhibits. He posted signs indicating "This Way to the Egress". Not knowing that "Egress" was another word for "Exit", people followed the signs to what they assumed was a fascinating exhibit...and ended up outside.

We're seeing that clever bit of misdirection applied nationwide today where a bow is a “mostly peaceful protest,” “two weeks to flatten. . . .,” a Nork Nuke ICBM is a "communications satellite prototype," and 7,000 centrifuges spinning in Iran is a chance for a photo-op and a koffee klatch. Then there is the “Inflation Reduction Act” passed to make sure that inflation won’t be reduced by a cough in a carload.

"This Way to the Egress,” America. I hope you don't notice that the door opens into the middle of the Interstate at midnight with a  convoy of semis overloaded with history bearing down on you.

The headlights will keep coming down the road in the very near future and the deer will insist upon straying into them. The only question is whether or not you want to be part of the passive herd.

Choose wisely, grasshopper.