Something has been poking around

[madamesilverspurs]

the edges of my awareness, trying to force itself into the conscious layers of the stuff between my ears. It's not constant, but some days it's nearly so. I was finally able to pin it down today, as I watched Pat Buchannan achieve new heights of both screech and woebegone dramatic umbrage. And it occurred to me that the sensation happens whenever the spokesjerks from the right clutch their chests in a death-rattle of patriotic agony over some allegedly treasonous slight (like lapel pins) on the part of anyone on the left. Some days it's O'Reilly or Hannity or Bachman or Coulter or Malkin or Boehner or Cantor or Rove or any of the rest of the all too familiar list. Today it was Buchannan (expressing his profound disappointment that Obama did not throw a Buchannanesque tantrum when meeting Hugo Chavez) who finally called that 'something' into the light. Namely, that their utterances evoke that marvelous line of dialog from 'Sunset Boulevard' -- "I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille." (And great thanks to both Gloria Swanson and Carol Burnett.)