Don’t Try

Bukowski grave

Over the last several years demonstrably dangerous, unbalanced, lazy human beings have been pouring across the border, the border separating Washington D.C. from the rest of the country. In fairness, these Republican members of congress were invited by Republican voters, who sent them there with the explicit goal of displaying the intelligence and productivity of broken fire hydrants, a goal they have achieved with honors.

What does this have to do with Charles Bukowski you ask? The late, beloved poet, novelist and short-story writer Charles “Buk” Bukowski included this gem in the screenplay he wrote for Barfly, (Later writing the novel Hollywood about the experience of making the film) a line spoken by Bukowski alter ego Henry Chianski, who in explaining his empty resume to a job interviewer says, “It take a real man to get by without working.” By this lofty standard the men and women of the 113th congress are mensches indeed.

A part of me is certainly envious, what with my ideal, the Holy Grail I seek being an eventual state of existence in which I do as little as humanly possible while still maintaining sustenance and respiration. The distinction of course is that Bukowski’s version of sloth is intelligent and ironically, productive. His “inactivity” was put to use reading, writing, drinking and whoring, all activities that promote a richer, more livable, planet. Likewise, these are activities blessed by the gods I have no doubt.

Those illicit aliens in the Republican caucus on the other hand spend their time indulging either in what can best be categorized as legislative planking, or else in public self-gratification, neither of which is terribly amusing to anybody other than them. When it comes to something like background checks for buying a deadly weapon, aside from a couple of the Section Eights like Ted Cruz and Louie Ghomert taking to the floor to bark at cars, the strategy in the face of legislation favored by large majorities of Americans, or eminently useful and necessary to their lives is to perform the equivalent of going limp at the time of arrest.

Unlike Buk, who prided himself on living on next to nothing, these congressional deadbeats are sucking on the government teat, drawing handsome salaries and gold-plated healthcare while failing to propose or enact laws that have a frozen embryo’s chance in hell of passage by the House and Senate and signed by the president into law. Republican House members managed to avoid gainful employment on one particular day by spending all their time on the floor of the chamber taking turns sharing the opinion that life begins at, “Do you come here often?” on their way to passing a bill-to-nowhere outlawing abortion again. The day Republicans members of the House spent voting for the 37th time to repeal Obamacare was to governing what wanking into a sock is to procreation. I’m not saying it isn’t a fine way to spend a day. It just isn’t productive.

The ultra-right Republicans want so badly to avoid lifting a finger to reform the immigration laws it wouldn’t surprise anyone if they hid in the House restrooms to avoid working. A bunch of them did fritter away several hours holding a spleen-fest outside the building where they trotted out inane anti-immigrant stereotypes, one speaker warning that immigrants are coming here “to cut your throats” and others triumphing in an Olympian Pots calling Kettles Black event, by suggesting immigrants coming here are “takers”. The innovative message of outreach to the Hispanic population appears to be: “Eat shit”.

You can’t say these Republicans don’t do a little whoring (And no, I’m not piling on David Vitter again), though instead of the cream of the dirty boulevards of Hollywood Buk preferred, this crowd’s tarts of choice are pharmaceutical and insurance company lobbyists, corporate welfare peddlers and oil company pushers. They booze it up pretty good too, wobbling around the halls of congress shit-faced on Ayn Rand, pissed to the gills on rotgut “trickle down” economics and falling down fucked up on one-percenter moonshine and feudalist bug juice.

As long as these slack-asses are splayed out in the halls of power, I admit, I don’t feel like doing a damn thing. I plan to be wallowing with them in the gutter tonight. But not together.

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