In my minds eye I visualize the current before Christmas scenery. No white Christmas and carols there. No jingle bells. I visualize a general walking across a devastated, shredded battlefield, among the dead bodies and broken machines of war, still smoking and burning. The general could be of either army, the victor or the vanquished. It wouldn’t matter to this scene.
So here we are, on Christmas Eve, and Harry Reid has battled for his vision of government control and eternal beneficence through regulatory domination of those evil insurance companies. “The peasants will understand,” he muses, “after a few have felt the sting of the lash. We’ll decorate the white house Christmas tree all in red ornaments next year, maybe with faces of Obama, Mao, Stalin, Pol Pot, Hugo Chavez, Che and Castro. That would be joyous.” As he walks through the wreckage, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed, Harry’s cell phone rings.
It’s Nancy, breathless. “Good work Harry,” she purrs sweetly, “I knew you could do it. But now we need to start our reconciliation, don’t we? Do you know of a good place for us to hide while we carve up the booty?”
“I dunno,” replies Harry. “But we better do it quickly before the Chicago boys get into the act. They’re really greedy, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
Over the battlefield more storm clouds are gathering. Lightning strikes in the distance. The smell of death mixes with ozone and the dust becomes pungent as the rain begins. Harry hangs up the cell phone and pulls up the collar of his great coat. “Not only that bitch to contend with,” he says between clenched teeth, “but another vote. And now that everyone knows what it cost in bribes to get this far, every soldier I have left will be demanding boodle-for-fight after reconciliation. One just can’t count on loyalty these days.”
It’s raining harder. The ground has turned muddy, somewhere sloppy, elsewhere sucking at Harry’s boots as he walks. The great coat leaks even with the collar pulled tight around his neck. Harry is feeling miserable and depressed. He contemplates the corpse of a dead enemy soldier and veers sharply to his left. “And then there’s the Supreme Court,” he whines. “Those jackals will be asked to rule on the constitutionality of our victory. We have a few allies in the court, but can we count on them? Hell no. Not yet. But maybe in the future.”
Suddenly the scene changes. Segue into a sunny courtyard. It is filled with wheel chairs and stretchers. The sun beats down though “hallelujah clouds” just like the cover of a bible school prayer book. Except for the missing limbs and grievous burn scars the occupants look normal and happy. The Federal Government has provided them with Socialized Health Care. What a blessing.