Big Jim, Little George and Another Bozo Averted
When I went to be last night, the election returns made it look like my political-regime pedigree was going to have yet another grotesquery of leadership foisted on what years I have left as citizen-above-the-turf.
I tossed and turned. When I went to bed last night, the Commonwealth ship of state seemed destined to sail another four years in the windless, oxygenless sea of GOP.
As a life-long southern Appalachian, I’m weary of being guilty by geographic association on both counts. Culturally toothless or cerebrally or ethically misshapen politicians have for too many decades offered an ongoing source for late-night parody and lampooning of the stereotypical kind that sullies all of us in these parts. We seem doomed to live out our type-cast as inbred buffoons.
Big Jim Folsom and Little Gov George Wallace andÂ Theophilus EugeneÂ “Bull” Connor were political caricatures from my Alabama past that I’m just as happy to barely remember.
So when I went to sleep thinking Virginia would have to survive four years under Governor HoochieCooch and his Flat Earth Misogynists, I was sore depressed.
Somebody else won instead. Why am I still depressed?
On a related note, we hillbilly types are at least hip now.