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It appears that we are pretty far up Shit Creek, our speed increasing as we race toward the roaring falls looming ahead. We're clear around the bend, and everyone on the boat is hysterical, from the right side of the boat to left.

perilous american parable

A Perilous Parable For the New Year—Jaime O'Neill

We still have paddles, most of us, but those oars are mostly splintered, and the ones that are intact are being employed by paddlers who are rowing in every conceivable direction. Some of them, in fact, don't even have their oars in the water.

The rudder broke off a long ways up river, but we'd veered off course well before that, after we floated past the wreckage of that Twin Towers landmark that we were looking at when we should have been paying more careful attention to navigating.

The rudder broke off a long ways up river, but we'd veered off course well before that, after we floated past the wreckage of that Twin Towers landmark that we were looking at when we should have been paying more careful attention to navigating.

Instead, we took a tributary that led us up Shit Creek as it flowed out of Iraq before cascading in damn near every imaginable direction. It even washed away America's notion of itself as the land of the free and the home of the brave because, even though there were still brave people left among the American population, those on the left had fallen silent, and those on the right promoted fear on a daily basis, encouraging the forfeiture of freedom in deference to the fears of terrorism.

In order to be free, it turned out, it was necessary to be brave, and we just couldn't quite muster it. Just as Americans had done during the Cold War when some of the more fearful among them found Communists lurking under every bed, the new century's Americans took a wild boat ride on a newly raging Shit Creek, with the more fearful among them thoroughly frightened by nearly every swarthy person on the planet, from Mexicans to Muslims, and from a range of Negroes of various hues that included their very own elected leader, a guy they were told daily wasn't one of them at all, a foreign saboteur come to take away their guns, the only assured way they had of protecting themselves from the hordes of bad guys with guns who seemed to be menacing them from Sandy Hook to Starbucks.

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That particular colored guy—elected by gay and lesbian libtards, lazy food stamp "takers," sappy socialists, and meddling environmentalists—had made it a point of going around the world apologizing for their country, groveling before world leaders as though America wasn't the most wonderfully exceptional nation the planet had ever seen, always just, always kindly, and always fair to a fault, a virtual cornucopia of foreign aid to lesser nations with nary a grain of expectation of gratitude or thanks.

And when that damned Kenyan wasn't apologizing for the good ol' USA, he was playing golf in that happy-go-lucky way the darkies always tended to do, larking about and dicking off, never really capable of working hard and staying on task like the white folks did.

Those no-account black folks, Mexican illegals, and their loser liberal allies were also in that leaky boat careening down Shit Creek toward Catastrophe Falls, everyone yelling at one another and blaming other passengers for steering us into this treacherous tributary in the first place.

And, at the helm, sans rudder, the new captain tried to stir confidence by shouting over the tumult, telling everyone that if we stayed the bewildering course he proposed, we'd somehow be swept back to that fork in the river that had led us up Shit Creek to start with, that place on the shore where the passengers had stopped to pick him up, where he'd gotten on board and taken over at the helm, immediately breaking the rudder on a series of rocks he steered the boat into at every turn. He also urged taking on a whole new shipment of nuclear weapons even though water was pouring into a leaky craft already badly overloaded with excessive ballast and too many passengers with insufficient brains.

As the roar of the falls grew louder, even those who had cheered the new captain began to lose heart, except for those who were sure to the core that this wasn't Shit Creek at all, and that what sounded like a crashing waterfall ahead was just the sound of a crowd upriver, cheering the impending arrival of the man who would make them all great again.

jaime oneill

Jaime O'Neill