Last night, I had a horrible nightmare. It is a lesson to me that I should never watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer before getting into bed, and then read the latest political news before turning out the lights. That combination is a recipe for horror. It could have been the chips and salsa after 11 PM. I think that late night dietary choice digitally enhanced the dream, and not in a good way.
As my dream began, I found myself in a winter wonderland. In my mind, I had just escaped from the angry rhetoric of the Abominable Snow Job that had blown in from the Right, and I was looking for a way back to Reality. I was wearing pajamas and I could fly, but that’s standard operating procedure for my dreams.
Through the white conditions, I was able to spy several older white men in suits wandering aimlessly across the barren landscape. I stopped one of the men.
“What are you doing out here all alone?”
The white man looked up at me with sad eyes and said, “We are all here because no one will be played by us anymore. We have been cast out of Reality by an Electorate that no longer has use for us. We are trapped here.”
“But where is here?” I asked.
“Why, you are on the Island of Misfit Pols. This is where political operatives, pundits and candidates come to wait for someone to love us again.” He gestured towards the other wandering white men. “Our view of Reality is defective but if the Electorate would give us a second chance…” His voice trailed off.
“That’s so sad,” I replied. “You don’t look defective, at least on the outside. What’s your name?”
The first one spoke. “I’m Karl Rove. I’m a paid political consultant…whose clients always lose.” I knew he looked familiar.
“That IS a defect,” I thought to myself. The others chimed in with their own introductions.
“I’m Dick Morris. I’m a political commentator on TV…who can’t understand polling data.”
“I’m George W. Bush. I’m a former President…whose name cannot be mentioned at his party’s national convention!”
“I’m Rep. Tom Cole. I’m a Republican…who advocated cutting a tax deal with the White House.”
“I’m Rep. Tim Huelskamp and this is and Rep. Justin Amash. We’re Republicans in Congress…but without committee assignments anymore!”
“I’m Tommy Muller. Remember? We were in elementary school together.” He is a featured character in many of my dreams. I can’t explain it.
Then they spoke in one voice. “We’re prisoners on the Island of Misfit Pols.”
This was getting weird, even for a dream.
“Well, good luck, older white guys. I don’t belong here. I may be white, but I’m not older and my view of Reality is not defective. In fact, I’m heading back home to Reality as soon as I can,” I told the group. Being around Dick Morris was making me uncomfortable. And there was a weird looking Jack-in-the-Box and a train with square wheels that kept staring at me. I had to get out of there.
“Take us with you!” they begged. “We need to be loved again! If they could do a Fox News special on us, it might validate our delusional thinking. We’re sure the Electorate would come around to our points of view and overlook our defects!”
I must be dreaming, I thought, because I felt some momentary pity for these outcasts.
“I’ll tell the Electorate your story and maybe they’ll stop by before the next election cycle to get you out of here. After all, some parts of the Electorate might love to have a defective pol of their own.” Then I stepped on to a piece of floating ice that had broken away from the polar cap due to the rising global temperatures of my dreamscape and began my journey back to Reality, a place where these misfits didn’t belong.
As I drifted away from the misfits, I was filled with dread. Reality was just beyond the horizon. It’s where I live, but it can be a scary place, even if your views are not defective.
I woke up in a cold sweat clutching my dog-eared copy of Bill Maher’s More New Rules tightly to my chest. I turned on the TV and saw a featured story that Karl Rove and Dick Morris had been given an involuntary vacation from Fox programming, and that 4 Republican representatives had lost their committee assignments in what was being called the Great Conservative Purge.
Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all. Maybe the Island of Misfit Pols exists. One can only hope.