a political dispatch, in the style of Hunter S. Thompson
Morning in America, that is to say dawn in San Francisco, early morning in Denver, sultry beginning of midday in Philadelphia, and Marcus Bachmann, the latest right-wing doughboy iteration of Liberace, is thrusting his gay-ass arms out like Nixon in a confetti-strewn room in Des Moines. It is his wife's victory, and she is smiling submissively--don't ask what that adverb means.
Look at this generation of Iowans, idiotically desperate for a charlatan to follow: how they suffer in the corn-oil-suffused August heat. Unemployed or not, evangelical or not, potbellied or not, they are in the throes of some frenzy. God only knows but it's a frenzy worse than any adrenochrome binge, the mania of mindless patriotism