Bridge Over the River Kwai Redux

Time to deal. Time for introspection. Time to prove you're as intrepid and patriotic as you've so haughtily insisted, while making finicky adjustments of the little flag pin in your lapel. Time to make good your incessant boasting. Because unless you are a mindless, capitalisto-fascist drone possessing a will of gelatin, a loyal Gunga Din for the Republic Party hauling its bitter water in gourds made from the hides of the dead in the 9th ward, you gotta ask yourself the question Colonel Nicholson asked after quasi-nationalist pride coupled with insane hubris utterly blinded him into building the bridge over the River Kwai: "My God. What have I done?"

You'd goddam better ask yourself. Because everyone who either voted for this administration or continues to be an apologist for the spiritually and intellectually corrosive activities that flow from its corrupt ideological core is committing what amounts to nothing less than (with respect to Ann Coulter) treason.

I don't care how much white hair you have on your head, how much schooling you have or how much you pray---in allowing Bush/Cheney do their thing, you are killing this country. The sick cynicism that guides their efforts to divide and destroy is as pernicious as heroin and, tragically, as intoxicating. But while we went about doing what we were supposed to be doing---happily consuming anything that's not nailed down---the Grand Experiment was ending up dead from an overdose when it was still in its' youth. America will have become the Janis Joplin of empires. Because without a real and binding sense of morality, without a love of truth and reason, this country is closer to becoming a supermarket where the rich do the shopping and the poor are the produce. And the numb mass, terrified that it's noble stature had begun to crumble under the weight of greed and lethargy that coalesced long enough to ensure Bush and Cheney to rise, to rule and to raze, will have unknowingly built that supermarket. Like Colonel Nicholson looking at his misbegotten masterwork: my God. What have we done?