By Beau Elliot
So, hurricanes, nuclear war with North Korea, hurricanes, rising federal debt, storm surges, battle to the death over raising the federal debt ceiling, hurricanes spawning tornadoes, Yankees breathing down the necks of the Red Sox as they battle for first place, why do they name hurricanes?, public-radio fundraising bonanzas, record storm surges, data breech-loaders, hurricanes.
It’s enough to make a halfway sane person, not that I’m aware of any anymore, want to go back to bed, crawl under the covers, and plot some tax reform.
(At least that way you won’t face the eight most-dreaded words in the English language: Honey, do these jeans make my butt look fat?)
Speaking of hurricanes always reminds me of Rush Limbaugh, who doesn’t go out in public in jeans. No, I’m not calling Rush a big bag of wind. Yet.
No, it’s not yet, yet.
But the Rush famously outdid even himself recently when he apparently took some night classes, became an expert on hurricanes, and decided that people should ignore the hurricane warnings. Then he took to the airwaves, which is something he does. Without being prompted.
“These storms, once they actually hit, are never as strong as they’re reported,” the Rush waxed. “… Well, the TV stations begin reporting this, and the panic begins to increase. And then people end up going to various stores to stock up on water and whatever they might need for home repairs and batteries and all this that they’re advised to get, and a vicious circle is created.”
And so forth. In Rush’s version of the Big Bang, hurricanes are a liberal plot (so much of daily life is) to scare people into needlessly buying stuff at stores, and then the stores buy advertising in the media, and the liberal media chuckle all the way to a Riviera vacation. (Aller en vacances, as they say in that corner of the universe, not worrying a whit what Rush might say.)
It might be worth noting that when Hurricane Irma bore down on Florida, Rush bugged out from his Florida residence for places unknown.
Obviously, hurricanes are no laughing matter, as much as Rush is. For instance, this text from the Associated Press was sobering:
AP at 10:12 a.m. [EDT Sunday]: “ATLANTA (AP) — First-ever tropical storm warning issued for Atlanta as Hurricane Irma hits Florida on its way toward Georgia.” via Politico Playbook
Yeah, sobering. “First-ever tropical storm warning” for Atlanta.
And not to make fun of owners of firearms, but this caught my wandering eye:
@PascoSheriff: “To clarify, DO NOT shoot weapons @ #Irma. You won’t make it turn around & it will have very dangerous side effects.” via Politico Playbook.
Um, yeah. I’m not sure about living in a place where people have to be reminded that they can’t shoot down a hurricane. Maybe it’s plot-tax-reform time.
At least, I think, the victims will surely get some aid from Congress. I mean, that ponderously slow body moved almost quickly after Hurricane Harvey, albeit with a very curious political deal. As the old saying goes, if you like bratwurst, you’ll love governance. Or something like that.
Other than disaster relief, Congress doesn’t really do anything anymore, except for some easy stuff around the edges (blue icing on the cake or red or both?).
But just wait. Pretty soon, they’ll try to legislate how many baby carriages may roll safely abreast on the great sidewalks of our fair land. They haven’t tried that. Yet.
And if they have, somewhere, please don’t tell me. We all have some cherished illusions. They may not be much, but they’re ours. And, incidentally, by “fair land,” I didn’t mean that blond people are somehow more fair than other people. From my experience, they’re most definitely not.
But then, who is?