Volume 81, Number 20 | October 20 - 26, 2011
West and East Village, Chelsea, Soho, Noho, Little Italy, Chinatown and Lower East Side, Since 1933
Animal Farm 2011 — or, a visit inside G.O.P.land
By JERRY TALLMER
With apologies to George Orwell...
The farmyard animals of G.O.P.land had caucused in the Big Barn to consider the question of Constipation, otherwise known as Log Jam. It seemed as if everybody had it or wanted it. Nothing moved, in or out. The whole damned farm — the whole damned countryside — was at its mercy. “And I like it that way,” snarled Mitch, the wily old mastiff who guarded the main gate. “No crap, no second term.”
And no jobs.
“Quack quack qua-a-ck,” quacked The Donald The Duck. “Show me the birth certificate! I’m smarter than everybody. That’s why everybody wants to come to the duck pond to kiss my ring. Qu-a-a-ck!”
“Kiss my behind,” snapped little old Doc Ronpaul, the buzzing horsefly. “This whole world’s a horse’s behind, except for me. And I say that the best prescription for total congestion is no regulation of anything whatsoever in the whole world. Including traffic lights.”
“Who are you calling a horse’s behind?” asked good gray Dobbin McCain as he clop-clopped toward the road less taken, and then changed his mind.“Constipation!” he whinnied. “That’s the ticket.”
And no jobs.
His wagon almost squashed a Newt that, lying in the mud of the wagon tracks, turned into a viper as it leapt for its life. Viper Newt had had some previous experience in shutting down everything. And its sting was poisonous indeed; But Newt himself was snakebit when it came to bestial infighting. He always managed to hoist himself on the petard of his own tail.
“I could be No. 1 here if I chose,” said portly sneering Chris Hogg, “but I do not choose to run. And if you don’t like it, go stuff it, I’ve got to catch a helicopter to a baseball game.”
“I’m No. 1 here,” crowed Tex Rick the rooster as he shot toward the bottom, splashing oil and bucks and scrambled history en route.
“No, I’m No. 1 here, watch my lips,” muttered Mighty Mouse Mitt, second cousin to those giant rats you sometimes see squatted on the sidewalks of New York outside a strike-breaking store or restaurant. Trouble is, Mighty Mouse Mitt has been running in place and changing his stories for 17 years now.
And no jobs.
“No, I’m No. 1,” gloated Dark Horse Herman, the upset long shot. “Nine, nine, nine!” he bellowed over and over again — a mantra to which Minnie Mouse Michele squeaked in reply: “Six six six! The mark of Cain, the mark of Cain!”
“Did I hear my name?” said Dobbin McCain, lifting his good gray head.
“Go back to sleep, old man,” trilled Songbird Sarah Macbeth, the stripteasing uncaged household canary
Sharp-nosed unemployed hunting dog Rudy Rover, who knows a conspiracy when he can sniff one, nudged calm, quiet Jon Huntsman. “Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look,” said Rudy as he indicated Eric the Weasel, always just at the shoulder of Boss Fox Boehner. “Beware the Ides of March.”
And then the animals, in solemn G.O.P.land caucus assembled, turned their attention to the crucial issue of the day.
Not jobs. Abortion.