Not Amused -OR- What Do YOU Know?

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As I type, the Gobsmacked goobers are gathered in glad garb getting goosed by Mooselini. She is reading to them the ghost-written words she knows they paid to hear. One part Saint Ronnie, one part Ayn Rand, one part Glen Beck, six drops of essence of terror, five drops of sinister sauce. Man, that woman can READ! She's the real deal! When you need someone to read for you... hey, wait a minute what is she selling? How many cliches can be strung together? Meet the new great communicator. Lie Baby Lie! Churn Baby Churn.


Driftglass encapsulates the crux of the situ.
Politically and professionally, I am heartily tired of being right, and losing, over and over and over again.

I’m tired of warning people not to give the keys to the shitwhistles, then watching them do it, then watching my nightmares come true, then watching them lie about it.

I am tired of drowning in a flood of other people’s self-absolving bullshit.

Tired of being a head smarter than primates who tell me to shut up and sit down while they fuck things up beyond repair.

Tired going broke while I watch people who have been wrong forever about everything prosper.

Tired of finding out – always too late – that there was another, secret rule book. Another, secret, organization chart. Another, secret list of the Clout Protected. Another, secret clique of insiders or brothers-in-law or made-media-men or A-lister’s who had already held their own Yalta Conference behind closed doors and have already divvied up the Brave New World I thought I was fighting for long before the battle was over.

Tired of finding out that while I was sweating my ass off, the game had been rigged against me by people who I thought were on my team.

Tired of finding out that the two ironclad rules of Illinois politics (Rule One: There is a club. Rule Two: You are not in it.) also apply to virtually every other institution.