After the Union Army of the Cumberland was routed by the redoubtable Confederate General Braxton Bragg at the Battle of Chickamauga, President Abraham Lincoln noted that its commander, General William S. Rosecrans, was “confused and stunned like a duck hit on the head.” I never fully understood what Lincoln was talking about until this morning, when Percy Windermere Pratt, Strategic Advisor to the Republican National Committee, arrived at my office for a consultation. One look at him was sufficient for me to completely comprehend that remark in every aspect and dimension.
“Please,” I invited, indicating the couch in front of the picture window overlooking the White House, “sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
“Yes,” Percy replied in a flat monotone as he slowly sank into the soft lamb skin cushions, “of course… comfortable… yes.”
A significant silence then ensued as he sat there, staring straight ahead, apparently contemplating some invisible object hovering in the air about four feet in front of him. This endured for three minutes, and might well have lasted longer, had I not decided to break the ice. “So,” I cheerfully inquired, “how can I help the RNC this morning?”
“Boehner,” he mumbled, perhaps half aware of what he was saying. “He… quit… on Friday.”
“Ah yes,” I acknowledged, “it surprised quite a few folks up on Capitol Hill when he did that; right out of the blue with no advanced warning whatsoever. Do you suppose maybe it was his encounter with the Pope that did it?”
“Pope?” he murmured. “Don’t… know… hadn’t… thought… about that. Possible… I guess.”
“If you’d prefer,” I offered, “we can reschedule this meeting for another time. Shall I have Gretchen check the calendar for alternatives later in the week?”
“No, no… that… won’t be necessary,” he replied, obviously struggling to get a grip on himself. “It’s just… we were… the Tea Party… the Freedom Caucus… they… Trump… Fiorina… Carson… the Continuing Resolution… defunding Planned… Parenthood.”
“Understood,” I assured him. “The Republican National Committee sent you here to consult with me about strategies to cope with problems arising from the Republican voter base rejection of so-called ‘Washington insiders’ and otherwise experienced Republican politicians, such as Governors Rick Perry and Scott Walker, who were recently forced to suspended their campaigns, in favor of self-proclaimed presidential wannabes who have never been elected to anything in their entire lives.”
“Yes,” he nodded, shifting his gaze downward to the surface of the coffee table in front of the couch. “Real… pain in the [expletive].”
“One can certainly imagine. With all of the mainstream Republican candidates unable to get into double digits in the polls,” I observed, “and the Tea Party’s so-called ‘Freedom Caucus’ clamoring to shut down the federal government by making a Continuing Resolution contingent on denial of any further funding for Planned Parenthood…”
“And cheering,” Percy unexpectedly interrupted, nevertheless still using his initial flat monotone, “like… a… football game. Like a winning goal at a football game.”
“When Boehner’s resignation was announced?” I ventured.
“Yeah,” he confirmed. “When Ted Cruz told them. They cheered… as if it had been… Obama… resigning. But it was Boehner. And Boehner is a good man… isn’t he?”
“Better than any of the ones who were cheering, no doubt about it,” I allowed, “or Ted Cruz, for that matter; and gifted, I might add, with intelligence, erudition and sophistication on a par with Ronald Wilson Reagan himself. So, under the circumstances, in light of recent developments, I surmise that the RNC needs some advice on what to do about the extremist right wing of the party, which threatens to become further emboldened because of Boehner’s capitulation, and thereby present a palpable risk that the Republican Party will lose control of the largest majorities of the House and Senate, not to mention state legislatures and governor’s mansions, it has enjoyed since the 1920’s.”
“Advice?” Percy’s head snapped to momentary attention. “Yes, yes… that’s… it,” he slowly intoned, “we… need… advice.”
“Right,” I encouraged. “Do you have something with which to record the advice?”
“Oh, yes,” he absently remarked, very slowly withdrawing an iPhone 6S from his suit jacket pocket and setting it on the coffee table. “We can record it… with this.”
“Sure, Percy,” I continued, “that will be just fine. Now, ever since Nixon, if not somewhat before, you Republicans have been very good at stirring up fear among the voters, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” he woodenly responded, “we know the value… of fear.”
“You certainly do,” I agreed. “Fear of Negroes, fear of Asians, fear of Hispanics, fear of the Jews, fear of immigrants, fear of Socialists, fear of Commies under ever bed, fear of liberals, fear of homosexuals, fear of foreigners, fear of science, fear of atheists, fear of Islam, fear of intellectuals, fear of rock and roll music, fear of recreational drugs, fear of modern art, fear of the Federal Reserve system, fear of the United Nations, and, of course, fear of Washington DC and the federal government.”
“True,” he stiffly nodded, again fixated on that invisible object four feet in front of him, “fear is good. Good for the party… to win elections.”
“And you Republicans,” I reminded him, “have also demonstrated over the last half century or so that you are consummate masters of public anger. During that period of time, you have succeeded in making Joe and Jane Sixpack angry at civil rights marchers, welfare recipients, public housing residents, people who receive food stamps, peace activists, beatniks, hippies, working mothers, pregnant teenagers, union members, environmentalists, college students, farm workers, draft dodgers, the Japanese, the French, the Mexicans, and even the inhabitants of the tiny Caribbean island of Grenada.”
“Anger… motivates… the base,” he slowly affirmed.
“And, of course, there’s divisiveness,” I pointed out. “For the last fifty years, the Republican Party has adroitly pitted whites against blacks, blacks against Hispanics, blacks against the Asians, Hispanics against the Anglos, nativist working class ethnics against foreigners and immigrants, Southerners against Northerners and the middle class against the poor – all to deprive each of them of an effective response to Republican plans to exploit all of them for the advantage of the wealthy elites.”
“Divide… and conquer,” he recited as if by rote, “it worked for Caesar, it worked for Nixon… and it worked for Reagan, too.”
“Ah, yes,” I pressed on, “and speaking of Reagan, he began the Republican tradition of making up complete bull [expletive] and acting as if it were, in fact, true, didn’t he?”
“Brilliant man… Ronald Reagan,” Percy whispered, now gazing up at the ceiling at something only he could see.
“That’s right,” I japed, “just make up some incendiary pack of lies and spout it off. Ironically, the way it works is, the bigger the lie, the less you have to answer for. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be factual at all – maybe it was just your opinion. What does reality matter? Ever since Ronald Reagan, the Republican Party has defined its own reality, and everyone else’s be damned – am I right?”
“Uh-huh,” he concurred, now starting at his shoes. “Global warming… and capital market moral hazards… can only hurt you… if you believe in them.”
“Right,” I continued, “so, after five or six decades of such tactics from you big business, country club, establishment Republicans, what happened? A bunch of sociopaths in your own party have got ahold of those concepts and wrested them from the control of your leadership. The sad fact is, now they’ve turned those tactics and strategies against you, and your political base is dancing to their demented tune. Those depraved, mendacious and craven sociopaths are using your own time-honored techniques to make rock-ribbed Republican conservatives fear you, to be angry at you, and to divide you from them by portraying the career Republican politicians who pay your princely salary as the Other. That’s the essence of the establishment Republicans’ problem.”
“What… can we… do?” he pathetically mumbled. “Frantically calling… Yale… Dartmouth… Cornell… Princeton… Stanford… University of Chicago… nothing. Nobody calls back. No advice from… lifelong friends.”
“Friends?” I scoffed. “Come now, Percy, don’t you know – if you want a friend in Washington DC, buy a god damned dog.”
“I… have a dog,” he confessed. “It doesn’t like me.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I lied.
“Help me… please,” he quietly begged.
“Okay, sure,” I said. “Why don’t you and the rest of the RNC get on a chartered flight to Utah, go out to someplace appropriate like the Grand Staircase or Natural Bridges, find a high object, climb to the top and jump off?”
“Huh?” he responded.
“Oh, nothing,” I replied. “Just checking to see if you were paying attention.”
“Doing what?” he asked.
“How about you go home, drink a quart of rubbing alcohol, take knife out of the kitchen drawer, cut off your face and feed it to your dog?” I suggested.
“Um… don’t know,” he whispered. “Is that a good idea?”
“No, not really,” I admitted. “Look, what you establishment Republicans have to do is consider re-branding.”
“Re-branding?” he echoed, finally mustering enough lucidity to be puzzled.
“Right,” I confirmed. “The Republican brand has been around since 1854. It was founded by people who wouldn’t recognize what it has become in the Year of Our Lord 2015.”
“Really?” Percy asked. “You think so?”
“I know so,” I assured him. “The founders of the Republican Party would take one look at the current version and vomit. They stood for abolition of slavery – today’s Republican Party stands for racism. They stood against Secession – the ultimate expression of States’ Rights – and for the Union and a strong centralized federal government They stood for modernization – today’s Republican Party stands for an atavistic return to the values of a Better Past that never existed, and, of course, being from the actual Past, that’s something the founders of the Republican Party would immediately realize. Everything the Republican Party stands for now, they would find completely revolting, except for three very important items.”
“What were they?” Percy wondered.
“Property rights, capitalism and big business,” I told him. “You see, many of the original founders of the Republican Party were Whigs…”
“They wore wigs?” he exclaimed. “Powdered wigs? Like they did in 1776?”
“No,” I clarified, “they were Whigs – the Whig Party.”
“There was a political party where everybody wore wigs?” he belabored.
“No, no,” I began, “well… yes, a lot of Whigs wore wigs, at least during the eighteenth century, but not by 1854, for Christ’s sake. Nobody wore powdered wigs in 1854 – they didn’t wear tricornered hats, waistcoats or silk stockings either; they wore silk top hats, frock coats and trousers. And they didn’t take snuff anymore, either – they smoked cigars. The point is, since 1854, the Republicans have abused the concept of what it means to be a Republican to such a degree, that with the exception of its dedication to the Boss Man and the profits of his factory, it means more or less exactly the opposite of what it meant one hundred and sixty-one years ago. The idea of being a Republican has been twisted and warped so many ways since then that now, what it means to be a Republican has become totally undefined. So, as I said, it’s time for the mainstream, establishment Republicans to re-brand their political philosophy and stand up for what they actually believe in and espouse – the Boss Man, his factory, and whatever corporate welfare it takes to make him even richer than he already is.”
“Re-brand?” Percy repeated. “You mean… change the name?”
“You bet I mean change the name,” I assured him. “And show some class and teamwork when you do it, too. Arrange it all at your country clubs and exclusive urban watering holes, and make sure none of the Tea Party trash get wind of it. Get the best lawyers money can buy to sew it up tighter than the insider list for a Wall Street IPO, then spring it on them in one single, devastating day, at the end of which, the sociopaths will be left with nothing but the name ‘Republican Party,’ and you guys will have everything else – the money, the property, the wealthy donors. Think of it! Overnight, most of the members of Congress who aren’t Democrats will suddenly become members of the National Party and the bozos who are now such a thorn in your side will be left with nothing but the ‘Republican Party’ name. It will also solve your Donald Trump problem, too, since he has publicly pledged loyalty to the ‘Republican Party,’ and after the lightning overnight transformation, all you mainstream Washington DC insiders who used to belong to that old, outmoded, superannuated American political organization will be able to look askance not only at him, but at Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz and Rand Paul as well.”
“Sounds… risky,” he objected.
“Of course,” I concurred. “But consider the alternative – if you establishment Republicans do nothing, it’s a virtual certainty that you’ll all lose your cushy jobs here in Washington as senators and congressmen and their cronies, lackeys, toadies and staff. Then you’d all have to actually work for a living.”
“Work?” Percy sat bolt upright, suddenly alert. “Good God Almighty! A fate worse than death!”
“Now you’re getting the idea,” I chided. “You go back to Reince Priebus and tell him what I told you – dump all this Tea Party baggage and re-brand the establishment Republican Party under another name. It’s your only hope.”
“But… what… if… they want to join?” Percy whimpered in despair.
“Blackball the bastards,” I declared. “It shouldn’t be hard – you know who they are. If there’s one thing a Tea Party jackanapes does well, it’s shoot their mouth off proclaiming their cockamamie ideas and letting everyone within earshot know who it is that has them.”
“Can we… do that?” Percy inquired with a timid tone.
“Legally,” I allowed, “maybe not. But hell, if any Tea Party morons insist on calling themselves members of your new National Party, when they show up to your meetings, just do what the conservative Republicans used to do to liberal Republicans like Lowell Weicker.”
“What’s… that?” he implored in a weak and quavering voice as he stared at the ceiling.
“Spit on them,” I said.