Are You There, God? It's Me, Broder

Broderella is doing exactly what he's supposed to do. This is his job -- to represent the institutional stasis and intellectual calcification of the holders of power and their courtiers, to facilitate their internal dialogues under the guise of talking to us peons. Although they barely bother to keep up even that pretense anymore.

Occasionally he and his esteemed colleagues might swap or share their man crushes, like the seventh-grade girls they really are deep down inside, getting giggly and wet and tingly when the BMOC struts by, then regaining composure enough to pick on the girls who study and get good grades.

It's nobody's fault but their own that Broderella and Tweety and the rest of the Appletini Gang let the jocks talk them into putting out. But now they have, and now they realize too late that they gave it up too early, and since they can't undo it, they have to keep up the lies they tell themselves and each other. It does no good to remind them that when dealing with neoclowns and conservatards, they should at least insist that someone wear a condom.

Would that they had barebacked themselves into irrelevancy at this point, but since they run the airwaves and control who is allowed on to talk about what, the goal merely shifts a bit to keeping the horserace as tight as possible. It doesn't matter that one candidate has the potential to be a thoroughbred, and the other is a pale imitation of the current administration dog food, the appearance of a race is the thing, the better to distract from the maintenance of ossified, self-perpetuating power structures.