The Republican Senate is Like a Gated Golf Community….. Members Only!

The Republican Senate is Like a Gated Golf Community….. Members Only!

Big Picture / Human Society / Politics / Utopianism / Dystrumpia / Republican Senate

No Trespassing!

You might think of the Republican Senate as a “Privileged White Male Evangelical Christian Golf Community” (PWMECGC), locally known as Whispering White Palms Golf Community, or shorter still, “The Palms”. In the center of The Palms was the infamous White Palms Country Club (WPCC) which the senatorial members liked to call the “White House,” which is to this day a male-only country club except during the annual Topless Hullabaloo Scramble.

When you drive up to The Palms, the first thing you see is the ominous security gate and the impressive fort-like complex completely surrounded by a massive brick wall so high that all you can see are the tops of the roofs of the Senators’ mansions.

The massive wall that surrounds The Palms was meant to protect the assets and safety of the privileged white male evangelical christian Senators. But it was also meant to keep out people of color and low net-worth rabble-rousers in general, except for the essential services workers who came in through the back entrance to mow and trim the lawns, pick up the dog poop, clean the houses and pools, do the laundry, maintain the golf course, caddy for the members (shankapotomus on parade), cook and serve the food at the country club, and tend the well-stocked bar for as low an hourly wage (no benefits) as the Senators could get away with.

Oh, and they cleaned up the vomit when the Senators were over-served (Yech!).

These are the same workers that the privileged white male evangelical christian republican Senators demonized on a daily basis, and tried to both physically and virtually build a wall around the United States to keep them out, except of course for the ones that worked at their mansions in The Palms.

The Palms

The Palms was a sort of mini-utopia, with each humongous house looking about the same, the grounds landscaped and groomed to perfection, no potholes in the streets, no dogs pooping on the super-green grass, and no children to be found anywhere who would most certainly leave bikes on the lawn, multi-colored chalk drawings on the sidewalks, and other annoying stuff kids do that the old and creaky and grumpy Senators (Hey kid, get off my lawn!) didn’t want to put up with anymore.

Order was maintained by extreme peer pressure to force strict adherence to the rules which specified absolutely no

  • beat-up pickups parked in the driveway
  • grilling steaks in the backyard with one’s shirt off (Yech again!)
  • talking during a backswing
  • forgetting to repair one’s shank-inspired gnarly divots, and
  • saying grace and “thank you for your service” at the dinner table without holding hands.

In The Palms, uniformity, preciseness, and adherence to the rules translated into stability, harmony, and serenity. Nothing, especially votes, was left to chance, and everything was in its place, kinda opposite of the real world.

The Senators were tired and wrinkly and crusty after decades of double scotches, cigars, unlimited rich food, too much Viagra-stimulated extracurricular sex, and too much sun at The Palms. Nevertheless, life for them was good, far better than the below-minimum-wage workers that came in through the back gate to serve them.

“We are so blessed,” the Senators would often say.

The Country Club

A few years ago, Whispering Palms Country Club (the “White House”) conducted a search for a new general manager. The search committee was made up of those Senators with the lowest handicaps.

Don’t step on the grass!

While they had many well-qualified candidates that came from the top private men-only golf country clubs across the nation, they ended up awarding the position to a guy named Don who said he had no resume, but he said all his friends (one or two) called him “Prez”. He bragged a lot about his golf game, but the truth was he had a golf swing that made squirrels run for the trees and a vocabulary that fit on a business card (one side only).

Prez accidentally got the job because during his interview, he told all of the Senators on the search committee, “You Senators are a bunch of fuck’n losers! You need me more than I need you. I can make The Whitehouse great again, but if you low-IQ, weak-kneed scumbags don’t give me the job, I’ll sue your ass so badly you’ll have to move in with your parents, assuming those decrepit motherfuckers are still alive!”

The Senators laughed so hard, tears were rolling down their cheeks and they thought Prez was so funny that he would be great in the position. What they didn’t realize was, he really meant it, but they didn’t get it, at least not right away.

As time went by, the Senators realized Prez was also a low-life scumbag, and didn’t give a shit about anybody. But they put up with his shenanigans which included slapping their wives’ butts and an occasional inappropriate grope. But the spouses kinda liked it so they went along with it.

“That’s just Prez being Prez,” they would say.

Prez had no respect for anyone. He considered everyone except himself a chump that he used and abused for his entertainment and financial enrichment. He was a mean son-of-a-bitch.

The privileged white evangelical male christian members allowed Prez to play the big shot inside The Palms, but at the end of the day he reluctantly did (mostly) what they told him to do. He was a tool of their own making. They quietly murmured words like “He’s the Chosen One,“ or “He’s a vessel filled up with god’s spirit to do god’s work,“ or “I don’t like his tweets, but I like his policies.”

The Chosen One doing god’s work while taking a one-club length drop from the hazard.

Prez was barely able to hold on to his job by lying and schmoozing the Senators’ wives and hiring an army of wise-guy attorneys to fix his various gaffs, frauds, and scandals. The Senators had made their pact with the devil — not the Chosen One — and it was backfiring on them in slow-motion.

Enemies at the Gate

Protecting Prez from the enemies at the gate just outside the wall was an everyday struggle.

Unfortunately for the Senators who didn’t know this at the time they hired Prez, he had double-crossed a few people in his day – like, hundreds of banks, and, thousands of investors, employees, suppliers, politicians (republicans and democrats), and porn stars – so things came back to haunt Prez and the Senators on a daily basis, which required a lot of lawyers and a lot of cash to catch and kill these attackers. Apparently, everybody has their price and can be bought off. How do you ever save money living like that?

“If you have to ask the question,” Prez would say, “then you’re a loser.” Hmm. Was he right about that? Crap!

Prez had miraculously escaped jail and gotten away with everything, and that made his enemies all the madder. They were obsessed to see Prez get his comeuppance.

Prez said and/or did something crappy and/or criminal just about every day, which was driving the Senators crazy in their accidental partnership with the devil:

  • The Senators needed Prez, and
  • Prez needed the Senators.

The Senators had to protect Prez from his enemies because if he went to jail, things would go badly for the Senators because Prez knew too much about their own dalliances and corruption and they knew he was a “double-down” revenge kind of guy.

Luckily for Prez, the privileged white male evangelical christian Senators were able to protect him. As long as Prez stayed inside The Palms’ magnificently high walls, Prez was safe.

The massive wall also kept out witnesses, because witnesses were really bad news and could screw things up. Witnesses didn’t know how to speak in the code language that Prez and the Senators used that included nonsense words, oblique references, raised eyebrows, and an occasional wink. Witnesses simply told the truth which was awkward, dangerous, and not nearly as much fun as speaking in code.

Occasionally a witness would try to clamber over the top of the wall screaming and blowing a whistle, but The Palms had a top-notch, social media savvy public relations smear squad poised at all times to demonize anything that moved.

They also had one mean-ass dog on the grounds named “Bubba”.

You Foolish Mormon, You

Life in The Palms hummed smoothly as long as the members followed the Club Rules. But every now and then a member would “break ranks”. Not too long ago, a privileged white male senator known as “The Mormon” called for a vote of no-confidence to try and get rid of Prez. He was upset that Prez refused to pick up the tab after a fancy dinner.

Word spread inside The Palms to not speak to the Mormon and his wife, make it hard for him to get an early-morning tee time, and to not invite Mr. and Mrs. Morman to the very important and gala-ish annual dinner-dance.

Things went hard for the Mormon and his family.

But that was life inside the walls of The Palms, not too different from high school. If you tried to step out of line and rock the boat, literally the next day the members made sure there would be “no more soup for you.”

It Was Bound to Happen

Prez one day announced that “… he was leaving to pursue other interests,” meaning, he got fired by the privileged white male evangelical christian Senators. They wrote him a big sayonara check and kicked his very fat ass out the front door of the White House and told him to never come back.

When Prez walked through the door and down the steps away from the White House, he turned around and yelled back:

“You guys are such a bunch of weak fuck’n losers, each and every one of you! You’re all so stupid, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing and you bunch of babies will be lost without me! Your membership numbers will plummet like they’ve never plummeted before!”

Prez paused to wipe some spit off his chin, and then continued.

“You’ll be getting a letter from my attorney. You’re gonna have a lawsuit on your hands like no lawsuit you’ve ever seen before. You‘re gonna wish you were dead! In fact, you’re all dead to me right now!

“You pussies all need to go back to your mansions and take your afternoon nap. I was the best general manager you ever had; in fact, I think, I know, I’m the best in the country… no, the world! I’m the best general manager of all time!

“Vicious, you’re all so vicious! You’re gonna pay big-time, motherfuckers!”

Prez gave the Senators the finger while thrusting it up in the air several times. Then he turned around and lumbered (slowly, painfully) down the driveway toward the newly-remodeled front gate with a new guard shack like no guard shack you’ve ever seen before.

The Senators all laughed at Prez, but it was a nervous laugh.