They don’t call it The Daddy Party for Nothin’

From the Liquid List

I’ve come to the conclusion that Republicans must need to regularly inflict a certain amount of self-flagellation. What other reason could there be to explain their tendency to make themselves look like idiots, over and over again, on most issues relating to the economy? What else accounts for pushing so many financially ruinous ideas on the public? Instituting debunked supply side schemes, cutting social programs that Americans support, forgetting the lessons of massive deficits, tax cuts for the super-rich that will do nothing for the big spenders…on it goes. Lather, rinse, repeat.

If I were a psychologist, I’d first look for any twisted parental relationships that might be at work here: “Son, take a bath or I’ll burn a cross in your room.” That kind of thing can damage a person, no? Make them feel bad about themselves? Make someone want to hurt themselves a little? “I’m not good enough for Daddy, so I’ll support this tax cut that will send the economy south, and I won’t get re-elected, which is what a bad boy deserves.” The bifurcation of the brazen quest for power and the self-loathing is just so pathetic.

The daddy issues aren’t always subtle, though. George W. Bush has spent the last six months trying to aim a big missile (more Freud there, don’t miss it) at, as he put it, “the man [who] tried to kill my dad.” But the young warmonger has missed the fact that it wasn’t Saddam who ended GHWB’s presidency. It was the economy, stupid! Bush enemy #1, with a bullet.

So here we are, stationed with 1991 Company at Camp Déjà Vu. The war, the economy, and the personnel. There’s trouble in Kennebunkport. Because 43 is all mixed up, see, just like all the other Republicans. He want’s to defend Daddy’s honor by grabbing power and killing Saddam, and at the same time he’s pushing this incredibly self-defeating economic policy — the kind that makes people think Republicans are bad boys.

It’s sad, really. Sometimes Republicans just need to be held.

Poor lil’ w.

To tell you the truth, this is the first time I’ve actually considered what it must have been like to grow up with Read My Lips for a father and Rhymes with Witch for a mother.

Jesus. Buy Gold and potassium iodide. We are in so much trouble…..