The Evelyn Wood Presidency

The Village that is Washington does, albeit reluctantly, allow Democrats to be elected once in a while, usually due to the inevitable disasters and scandals created by their Republican predecessors, but once in office, they expect them to become Republicans as quickly as possible, lest they soil the carpets with their shabby followers.  Who can forget the despicable trollop Sally Quinn, who, as is proper, fucked her way into the Washington elite, sniffing haughtily that Clinton “came in and trashed the place, and it’s not his place.”   To the governing class and its media hangers-on, the ideal candidate is any empty suit right-winger who will keep the money and perks flowing to the Right People, and keep the rabble where they belong, behind a fence somewhere.

Thus, Democrats are always suspect, tied as they are to those tacky unions and caterwauling minorities; like Baroness  Schraeder in “The Sound of Music,” they like to keep the money in the family.  Clinton was slow to catch onto this dynamic; even though he had abandoned spending any money to revive the last catastrophic Bush economy, he had the nerve to attempt, successfully, to raise taxes on the rich to balance the budget and then try to reform the amoral yet lucrative health care system.  For this intolerable breach of protocol, he was pronounced dead a few months into his Presidency; an irrelevant annoyance that would soon be sent back to the trailer park from which he came.   Of course, when Clinton produced a growing economy that propelled him to reelection, the Village again recoiled at the horror wrought by those silly voters, and joined hands with the Republicans to hound him out of office for his audacity.  By then of course, Clinton had already become a Republican, but the taint of his populist roots never washed away; made metaphor as it was in the stained blue dress.

When George Bush came to town, the Village rejoiced at the sight of all the private planes on the tarmac, and thought the furs, jewels, and glorious excess of the Reagan era were finally back, and the government could get back to its proper business of afflicting the afflicted and comforting the comfortable.  They were right about the second part, and how, so they forgave the first when they discovered that he and his frumpy librarian wife bedded down at 9:30.  He even brought the almost forgotten glamor of war back to the jaded Capitol, and the lush contracts that started flowing to the right coffers made Washington a boom town again; dowagers on the way out could unload their mansions for rich profits to the new elite, and every Washington party looks better with dress uniforms all about.  Like in Louis XIV’s Versailles, the national wealth was flowing in the right direction again, and Sally Quinn and her ilk could say “let them eat cake”  and  mean it.

When the predictable (to others) collapse occurred, the Village of course suddenly looked at Barack Obama and the Federal Treasury and saw, as did Lady Bracknell, “social possibilities in his profile.”  Though obviously one of “those,” both a Democrat and a well, you know, they were understandably used to deference from both, and expected it from the new President.  Sadly, Obama gave them just what they wanted, leaving in place the Generalissimos of Bush’s military junta, the consiglieres of Bush’s financial fixers, and quickly dismissed out of hand the notion that even Bush’s worst thieves and torturers, those that went to the smart cocktail parties anyway, would face any legal unpleasantness.  That, apparently, wasn’t enough for the Village, and their unfounded worry that maybe someday Obama might rock their luxurious boat, what with his overwhelming congressional majorities and all, led them to cast about for a Republican revival in time for the next social season.

In Washington, Republican presidencies are forever, while Democratic ones are never allowed to last much longer than a spa visit, so I suppose we should be grateful that they waited almost a whole year this time.  But the Queen of the Village Slutterati, Sally Quinn, has spoken….  The age of Obama is over, and the age of Scott Brown has dawned like a bright new day in her Georgetown Manse.  If I were Ben Bradlee, I’d hire a taster for my Metamucil.  The Estate Tax comes back in less than a year, you know.