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El Rushbo At Bat

The Outlook wasn't brilliant for News Corp that day:


The score stood four to two, with only a handful of states left in play.

And then when Newt died in Iowa, and Pawlenty did the same,

A sickly silence fell upon the zombies, Bachmann was still in the game.

A few went home to their white skinned, blue –eyed Jesus in despair.  The rest

Clung one last hope, that beautiful baritone EIB voice that filled the air

They thought, if only El Rushbo could get one last whack at twisting each fact

The Koch brothers would pony up the money, if only El Rushbo could get to bat.

But Michael Savage preceded El Rushbo, as did also little Glenny Beck,

And the former was a nut job and the latter a conspiratorial wreck.

So on the stricken GOP caucus goers grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance El Rushbo would get to bat.

But Savage kept his crap together, to the wonderment of all,

And Beck blamed everything on Nancy Pelosi as he lay in a fetal ball;

And when the BS had lifted, and the mainstream media saw what occurred,

There was little Glenny playing with his poop & Savage pushing an intellectual turd.

From the throats of 10 million, long suffering middle class white men, came a yell;

Keep the taxes on the upper one percent low; let the poor and minorities go to hell;

It rattled from their man caves and recoiled like an AK-47 from their fat,

For El Rushbo, mighty pill popping El Rushbo, was advancing to the bat.

There was an ease to Rush Limbaugh’s manner as he sat down in his seat;

There was a pride in his bearing as he got ready to tear up the liberal elite.

And when, responding to the dittoheads, he cleared his throat like that.

No Democrat or African-American could doubt ‘twas El Rushbo at the bat.

Millions of eyes were on him as he quickly got down to mudslinging and dirt:

Feminazis were to blame for everything; a bit of sweat dripped on his shirt.

Then, even though it was 20 years out of style, he gave political correctness a rip.

Defiance gleamed from his eye, the words Kennedy and Acorn sneered from his lips.

Now a caller wondered if it was not deregulation that caused the economy to tear

Coupled with Bush tax cuts that stimulated nothing. Wasn’t he full of hot air?

Close by the sturdy fatman, the truth came at unheeding sped –

“The truth ain’t my style,” said El Rushbo. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the tea parties, without black people, there came a muffled roar,

As loud as footsteps of Mexicans wading a river to take their jobs, dreams and more.

“Kill him! Kill him! He’s thinking for himself!” shouted someone into their phone.

Likely they would have done just that, ‘til Rush joked about Barack’s nose and a bone.

A smile of Christian charity, or maybe t’was a trace of hillbilly heroin that shone;

The man who personified an intellectual bacon explosion bade the show to go on;

He signaled from the golden EIB microphone to Snerdley to go with caller number two.

More questions about how the government doing nothing, stimulates prosperity a new.

“Fraud! The President is not even an American. A Nigerian tribesman he grew.” cried the maddening throng.

But one scornful look from El Rushbo told them he would show the liberals wrong.

No more Medicare or social security to worry about. No teacher’s unions to fear.

Just reverse affirmative action. Defund scientists with their global warming smear.

The zombies saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

His former nicotine stained fingers tightened. His malarkey, he would maintain.

And they knew that Rush wouldn’t let the truth escape, and get by him one last time.

They could go to sleep with their assault rifles & cop killer bullets, with peace of mind.

The sneer was gone from El Rushbo’s lip, his teeth were clenched in hate;

He pounds his table, no more free lunches, no more Head Start, after this date.

El Rushbo beckons and pleads; already unknown to him, a sad relic of the past.

Homosexuals, women, Hispanics, African-Americans, their political power arrived at last.

The white man’s burden has died, as a rainbow collation of people head to the polls.

 No one has a clue where the cultural ball will ultimately bounce and roll.

And now fate holds the ball, and now it lets it go,

And the air is shattered, by the force of the last gasp of El Rushbo’s blow.

Oh, somewhere, maybe in Montana, in a white separatist compound, the sun is shining bright;

The Lawrence Welk band is playing oldies, and somewhere, hearts are light,

And somewhere white men are laughing, and somewhere blonde haired children shout,

But there is not joy in Fox Land – Obama won again, and El Rushbo struck out.