“David Kahane,” National Review’s resident Michael Moore wannabe charts out the last 50 years of the left’s history:
The best part about our career choices was this: There was absolutely no downside for what we were advocating. Our entire agitation-for-change racket, which long antecedes BHO2, was predicated upon the notion that the only bad things that would happen would happen to you. It was your way of life that would be destroyed, not ours; you who would have to pay the cost of our relentless lawsuits, not us; your kids who would bear the burden of fundamental change, not ours — because, after all, as socially conscious, low carbon-footprint types, we don’t have kids. (We get your kids to pay our Social Security.) Besides, how can you bring a child into a world that also has Sarah Palin in it?
By the simple means of appealing to the better angels of your nature — we also don’t have any better angels, since we don’t believe in G*d or any of that mumbo-jumbo — we got you to question and then junk much of what you formerly believed in. We were the devil on your left shoulder, the little red sonofagun always whispering: Go ahead. Carpe diem. If it feels good, do it. You know you want to . . .
Because what did we have to lose? We were perfectly comfortable embedded, like a contagious tick, in your society, happy to carve out a handsome living as lawyers, labor leaders, writers, teachers, pornographers, and T-shirt icons, injecting our poison into your minds in the fervent hope that you would eventually see it our way. We were Screwtape and you the Patient, working you over with a host of Wormwoods with gilt brass knuckles. We became the enemy you loved.
But perhaps we have done our work too well. Your society is reeling, sick, possibly terminal — just the way Cloward and Piven and the Frankfurt School and Saul Alinsky and Herbert Marcuse and the Weather Underground and George McGovern and Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin and Tom Hayden and Bill Ayers and Bernardine Dohrn and Kathy Boudin and the authors of the Port Huron Statement drew it up on the blackboard jungle way back when “Che” was a dope-smoking, rock-throwing pup. Yippie!
Read the whole thing.
Before the president’s approval of you slips even lower.