The Tell-Tale Voice

True! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? I am a political junkie after all. This election season has been like no other; can’t you see that? The feverish election had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the blue states and in the red. I heard many things in the battlegrounds. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I tolerated the woman. She had never, as a white male Christian, wronged me. She had never given me the insult she lavished upon my neighbors. You know, those people? For her oil rebates I had no desire. I think it was her voice! Yes, it was this! Her voice resembled that of a vulture — a thin-pitched shrill, hovering high and sticky with a toxic sugar. Whenever it crawled in my ear, my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to rip the speakers from my television, and thus rid myself of that voice for ever. But… for a time, I could not bring myself to do it. I was a nighthawk of political televised commentary. It drove my wife bonkers. But not as bonkers as you might say it drove me. Yet you would be wrong. As I have told you, it was my super-sensitivity rather than any deviant lunacy!

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to her ideas or her supporters than during the whole week before I silenced her. Around the office water cooler, I coolly praised her and her feisty running mate. And every night about midnight I turned the television on ever so softly! And then, when I had made an adjustment of volume just sufficient for my ear, I closed my eyes so that no sound could be heard in the silence but her words in a tiny piercing voice like that of a droning mosquito. Yooou Betcha! The voice would buzz in my ear alone, in the silence, in the darkness. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I listened in! I tuned it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb my wife’s sleep. It took me an hour to hear an entire ranting rally. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when her strange messages were ringing in my ears, I tweaked the treble ever so cautiously — oh, so cautiously — cautiously (for now her voice sounded like a jigsaw through a pie tin), I tweaked the sound just so much that a single thin whine sliced through my brain, frying several synapses. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight. But, when I tried to dismantle the box, I found it was quite complex and the speakers difficult to separate, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the woman who vexed me but her evil message and that piercing piercing voice. Her r’s could make a pirate cringe and give up the sea. Yet every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the office and spoke courageously to her followers, calling her by name in a hearty tone, and praising how marvelously she’s riled her latest crowd. So you see they would have been a very surprised gaggle of loons, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I fried my brain with her cackling accents, as I contemplated disemboweling my televisions sound system.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in tuning the sound. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than that knob did. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I sat, focusing her voice little by little, and she not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps she heard me, for if she could see Russia from Wasila, perhaps she could hear my thoughts from Virginia, or even Ohio. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. The room was as black as pitch but for the blue glare from the screen (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of terrorists), and the slicing whine of her voice that sautéed my ossicles and pounded my eardrum like Tito Fuentes gone bongo-berserker! And yet I kept fine tuning it on steadily, steadily.

I had her voice reeling, and was about to completely melt my brain, when my thumb slipped upon volume knob, and my wife sprang up in the bed, crying out from the bedroom, “Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear her lie down. She was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as riled perhaps hearing the whirring of a horde of flies buzzing in a distant field in another state.

Presently, I heard from my darling wife a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. The thought of her in the White House. I say I knew it well. I knew what the woman from Wasila felt, and pitied her although I chuckled at heart. I knew that she too had been lying awake ever since the first inception on the national stage, when she had accepted a duty she had no claim to. Her fears had been ever since growing upon her and that of her maniacal base. She had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. She had been saying to herself, and frothing fans, “It is nothing but the darrrrned Liberrrals in the chimney, it is only a pesky terrrr’rrrist creeping around,” or, “It is merely a Gotcha Jourrrnalist with her probing microphone.” Yes she has been trying to comfort herself with these sustaining fears; but she had found all in vain. all in vain, because Truth, in approaching her, had stalked with its glowing light that enveloped the victim. And it was the hopeful influence of the unperceived light of Truth that caused her to feel, although she neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of the real “real America”, that could stomach neither her spiteful words nor that piercing, piercing voice.

When I had waited a long time very patiently, finally my wife had gone back to sleep. I resolved to turn up the volume a little — a very, very little tweak of the knob. One half-tick higher on the dial – this one goes up to eleven. So I turned it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until at length a single dim wavelength like the thread of the spider shot out from the speakers and shot straight into my brain.

It was a spoken shriek, cackling, whirring open like speedboat on blocks, and I grew furious as I listened upon it. I actually saw the tone with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the woman’s face or person, save that lipsticked mouth that spewed forth such sibilant sound!

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, slow sound, such as a mad dog makes when cornered. I knew that sound well too. It was the humming of the old television’s speakers. It increased my fury as the buzzing of fluorescent tubes incite the clerk into insomnia.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the volume knob motionless. I tried how steadily I could to maintain her tone upon my ear. Meantime the hellish hum of the speaker increased. It grew longer and thicker, and louder and louder, every instant. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this from a near-silent darkness sent me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the humming grew louder, louder! I thought my heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbour! Or worse yet, perhaps a supporter of the shrill woman! The time had come! With a loud yell, I threw open back panel of the TV and lunged at its innards. It shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged it to the floor, and pulled the heavy speakers from the trunk. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the sound wailed on with a muffled reverberation. A remnant of her voice entwined with the electric hum of the speaker. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The television was dead… and with it, the voice. No pulsation. Tone dead. This sound would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the appliance. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. And my wife never stirred.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye — not even my perceptive wife’– could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o’clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of Republican headquarters. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night, and he’d woke to discover a yardsign vandalized; suspicion of terrorists had been aroused; information had been lodged at the office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, — for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream and my wife had slept soundly though. I took my visitors all over the house, even showed them my Country First campaign posters. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to a chamber, where I showed them more campaign treasures, secure, undisturbed, and virulent. They seemed particularly pleased with my postered socialist puns! In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them, I was a supporter and not in fact a communist nor a terrorist, but a God-fearing capitalist of blind allegiance to the morals and values of the Party. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness — until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. I supposed that I was likely sounding much like her. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, SLOW SOUND — MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A MAD DOG MAKES WHEN CORNERED. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations, as if I were in attendance of one of the rallies; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no. They heard! — they suspected! — they KNEW! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! For those too reminded me of her! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again — hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! —

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! From my television, from these speakers! — it is the incessant shrillness of her hideous voice!”

Needless to say the Republicans left my house quickly. They’ve not returned or bothered to call anymore. Not even robocalls. My wife was peeved about the television, and the floor boards. But we got new carpet out of it. Also, we decided not to replace the television. That was a great decision. It has been exceedingly good for our relationship. I sleep so much better. I’m not up late every night “taking in the news”. Best of all, I don’t hear that voice all the time. That voice. That piercing, shrieking voice! That insidious sound…

At least I don’t hear it as often.

Behold! A great animated version of Poe’s original Tell-Tale Heart:

Quoth the Maverick… “Vote Four More!”

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a long and arduous speeches by forgotten bores,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a clapping,
As if some great crowd of rednecks rapping, rapping ‘pon convention floor.
`’Tis some rookie,’ I muttered, `frapping upon the political door –
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September,
And each Republican member wrought such glee upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my blogs surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the long and unjust war –
For the long misguided battles of the ill-planned Iraq War –
Nameless here for evermore.

And with silken sad uncertain expectorate of each purple electorate
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis but a few crazed fundamentals, leaping round about the floor –
A small band of misguided, fearful souls, clamoring for war; –
This it is, and nothing more,’

Presently my soul grew heavy; demanding then to levy,
To the T.V. said I, `Hey Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so raucously you came rapping,
And so haughtily you came flapping, yapping ‘pon arena floor,
That I scarce could quite believe you, as you threatened cursed and swore”
Anger and fear, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no American e’er dared dream since ‘04
But the anger was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the hollered word, `Traitore!’
This I whispered out an echo, a murmur of shock, to repeat, `Traitore?’
Merely this, then… so much more.

To and fro the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a yapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `it’s just one man shouting loud, not the feeling of the crowd;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this ugliness explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this viciousness explore” –
‘There on Youtube I saw much… so much more!

Open here I flung five browsers, when, with a saggy suit and trousers,
In there burst a stately maverick of the mavericky days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; but with a curse and grunt dismayed me;
And, with disrespect for ladies, galloped through my chamber door –
He trod upon my photos from Dallas now strewn about the floor –
Whinnied and bucked and nothing more.

Then this white haired steed beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern grimmace ‘pon the countenance he wore,
`Though thy reappearance seems like magic, thou,’ I said, `art sure so tragic.
Ghastly grim and ancient maverick wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Republican’s oily shore!’
Quoth the Maverick, `Vote Four More!’

Much I marveled this ungainly equine to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was cursed with seeing such a horse bust through his door –
Horse or beast with foul hot grunts, busted through the door,
With such a name as `Vote Four More.’

The maverick strutted around, but spoke only as to confound,
That one phrase, as if his soul in those words he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – at least none that really mattered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have been duped before –
But on election day we shall heave thee!” and my hopes rose as before.’
Then the horse bayed, `Vote Four More.’

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so curtly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some Rovian master whom ugly perverse disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one Party bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that resentment burden bore
Of “Oh! Just four, please… Vote FOUR more.”‘

But the maverick still was huffing all my sad soul into sloughing,
Straight I dragged my Lay-Z-Boy in front of steed and busted door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to thinking
Dread unto fear, thinking what is this ominous horse of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gruff, and ominous beast of yore
Meant in croaking `Vote Four More!’

This I sat engaged in guessing, with one syllable expressing
To the old hack whose foggy eyes now burned to my cranium’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head in pain reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining as the TV’s screechy Siren gloated o’er,
Words voiced like whistling missiles from the TV gloating o’er,
She shall meet the press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew harder, perfumed from an unseen farter
Swung by ancient Eohippus whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy GOP hath lent thee – the jaded hacks hath spent thee
Respite – relent – and repent thee, you sold out who you were before!
Quaff and gamble! Go and spend free, and I’ll bill you for the door!’
Quoth the maverick, `Vote Four More.’

`Maverick?’ scoffed I, `a deal of evil! – A Faustian pact made with a devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether temper tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, from the desert land enchanted –
On this trail of horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
You are President Bush – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Vote Four More.’

`Country First?!’ laughed I, `What baloney! – the “maverick” is a phoney!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, what were you thinking with Sarah Palin?
She’s indeed a sainted maiden, yet one whom most of us deplore –
Why clasp to this odd yet radiant coquette, with whom the mob screams out for gore?
Quoth the maverick, `Vote Four More.’

`Be those words our sign of parting, horse or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting –
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Republican’ oily shore!
Leave no horse hair as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my nice new door all broken! – get thy hooves right off my floor!
Take thy hoof from out my heart, and take thy form right out my door!’
Quoth the maverick, `Vote Four More.’

And the maverick, never budging, still is pacing, still begrudging
Upon my vacation pics from Dallas, still strewn about my floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a war hawk’s that is dreaming,
And the TV vamp sounding o’er him screaming arrows more and more;
For my vote, cast from that shadow, for which they so implore,
Again he begs me – “Vote Four More”!

Vote Four More???

I Pledge Allegiance… A Work In Progress

A short history of the intelligent design of our moral oath to our nation

(under God, with liberty and justice for all)


I pledge allegiance to my Flag and the republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.


I pledge allegiance to my Flag and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.


I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.


I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.


I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America® and to the Free* Global** Market for which it stands, one nation¹, In God We Trust‡, with Liberty² and Justice³ for all§.

* not “free” to all participants

** in appropriate accordance with each nation’s international status as either a producer or consumer, as dictated by the U.S. Federal Treasury, never to be FDIC insured or protected.

¹ Including personal off-shore, or foreign bank accounts, and privately owned, state-subsidized river boat casinos, but not meant to include tribal land ventures.

² Not including racial or ethnic minorities (even if those minorities one day become a majority), or women!

³ Not meant to include enemy combatants (foreign, national or resident), nor any citizen or naturalized citizen if relocated further than 20 miles beyond American borders, including aboard any and all river boat casinos, docked or otherwise.

† Jesus Christ, with allowances for priority residents of AZ, CA, FL, & NY

‡ All others subject to standard rates and fees, as imposed by the U.S. Treasury Secretary (and/or The Secret Three).

§ But some more than others.

Put These Wall Street Criminals Where They Belong

Economic “Maestro” Alan Greenspan defended his record recently saying that the responsibilities within the Treasury Department are not an exact science, and nothing is foolproof. He explained that in forecasting markets if they get it right 60% of the time they are doing very well. So, 60% is doing very well? This means that normally they are probably correct about 50% of the time. Whether it is markets or weather, forecasting anything at 50% is not forecasting – it’s guessing. And that is what finance and markets are all about really. I admire Greenspan for facing this frosty panel and admitting he made a mistake. But it was his mistake that tells us more about our country than it does about him.

“I made a mistake in presuming that the self-interests of organizations, specifically banks and others, were such as that they were best capable of protecting their own shareholders and their equity in the firms.”

In other words he is saying that his mistake was trusting that people in charge would do the right thing. This is not a naïve presumption on Greenspan’s part. We want to believe that the few in these positions are working for the benefit of all, not the destruction of the entire system for their own personal gain. Yet, when a Chief Executive Officer leads a company to a massive financial loss and still earns a massive financial bonus, the motivation is purely personal gain. The Guardian reported that “leaders at Wall Street’s top banks are to receive pay deals worth more than $70bn for their work so far this year – despite plunging the global financial system into its worst crisis since the 1929 stock market crash”. You and I would have a difficult time accepting these payouts now, knowing our neighbors are losing their jobs and their savings. These people are amoral and the majority of us can’t rationalize this behavior any more than we can that of a serial killer. They are wired differently. There is a place for people like this. We know who they are and where they are. One of them is now in Greenspan’s old office and politicians are lining up to shake his hand.

Where’s Powell Been? Oh! That’s Right, in Hiding.

Colin Powell’s recent endorsement of Senator Barack Obama for President left me wondering where Powell’s been all these years. We haven’t seen much of him since… when was it? Hmm….. Oh! I got it! Since shit went south in Iraq. That’s right. Now I remember. He was a major part of the Bush junta that got us into the mess in Iraq. He was the kind-familiar, reluctant hawk with a dove’s heart who assured us a pre-emptive invasion was the right thing to do. In fact he had the “secret intelligence” that proved… oh, wait… In the end it only proved to be false and very likely manufactured.

Most people agree he was duped and played like a Stradivarius by his dangerous commanders. Eventually, he did jump ship as Sec. of State. But he could have done so sooner, publicly criticizing the Bush Administration. Alas he did not, and tarnished an otherwise seemingly impeccable career. So, he has laid low, in shame it seems, ever since. Now he comes back into the picture to put his weight behind the young contender from Illinois. Oh! And what is this? Ken Adelman too? Hmm? I thought I heard Scott McClellen sneaking around again recently, thinking his tell-nothing book might save his bacon.

If McCain wins, these guys have nothing to fear. They might have blown their chance for a top cabinet post, but they won’t have to ever worry about investigations or tribunals. In fact, they might all be blessed with quiet pardons. But banking on a McCain win at this point is beyond risky. If Obama gets in the office, he might push for steps to reunify all of us – by prosecuting the criminals who deceived us into this irrevocable war with all of its tragic deaths. Where’s Rummy hiding these days?

Could Her Emails Be Hiding Secret Palin Baby Names?

Considering she only showed up to work about a third of the time she was supposed to, a thorough scour through her official communiques probably wouldn’t turn up much. But let’s have some fun speculatin’ as to what might be on those ding-dang pesky old emails anyhoo!

Much is made of Sarah’s lack of experience in.. well just about everything. However, making and naming babies is something she knows very well. I bet some of these secret emails contain long lists of possible baby names she had considered, or she might be considering for future progeny.

What might be some of the names she’d come up with, I wonder. She has a tendency to name her children after places, events and things important to her. Her son Track was named after her technique for finding her way home in the snow. Her daughter Piper was named after a favorite wrestling hero of the mid 80’s and it is also a tip of the hat to the many oil workers in her fair state. Her daughter Bristol is named after Sarah’s favorite pharmaceuticals company (she has since had the name legally amended to Bristol-Meyers Squibb Palin). Her youngest child Trig is named after the pesky college course that kept her bouncing around from school-to-school for many frustrating years (The course was actually Pre-algebra, but who’s gonna name their kid that, huh? Geez!).

Sarah’s still young and there’s plenty of birthin’ left in her I reckon. So, when this silly old election is over and she can get back to doin’ what she does best, what might she name her next four kids?
Considering recent events in Sarah’s life, I came up with a quick list of names she might currently be considering.

Yukon, Sled, Gauge, Trigger, Chopper, Fox, Blast, Gov Jr., Veeper, McCalin, Surge, Couric, Huffington, Kos, Limbaugh, Hannity, Sadr – oh… well, maybe not that last one.

What do you think? Offer some more names for the forthcoming Palin brood.

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Joe The Plumber in Middle Class Denial

Joe the Plumber in Middle Class Denial

Joe the Plumber’s faulty logic is that he likes to imagine himself making $250,000 when he buys his plumbing company. He puts on confident and gruff airs like he’s Dick Cheney. He probably likens himself to Dick Cheney. He certainly likes to fantasize about being in the same tax-bracket at Dick Cheney. Be proud Joe. You are no Dick Cheney.

Conservatives like to talk about a level playing field with no referees, where the strong and the shrewd succeed. Yet today, it is only the conniving and manipulative who have a shot at wealth. The American Dream, that Joe the Plumber pines for, of working hard and making a fortune, is under the boot of corporations. In today’s world, Joe has about as much chance of becoming a wealthy plumber as his son does of playing in the NFL. Not saying, it can’t happen; just saying it is not very likely.

So, he pledges his allegiance to the conservative candidate, because he thinks by not paying taxes he will somehow start hob-knobbing with Bush, Cheney, and Limbaugh – all such self-made men. Meanwhile, he is shooting himself in the steel-toed boot because the Obama tax plan directly affects him where he really is, not where he imagines himself to be. If he really wants to pay less tax, he should embrace Obama, not reluctantly shake his hand, and then defend McCain and his fellow Republicans.

Obama’s the only candidate here who actually gives the middle class a decent shot at the American Dream. Throughout this campaign Obama has been, literally at times, the only candidate to even mention the middle class. And Joe the Plumber, you are middle class. Soldiering as a lackey for the conservative candidate, thinking he gives a rusty pipe fitting about you or your business aspirations, that’s just… well, I don’t want to call it low class. That’s just remedial class.

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