There Was Never Anyone Like Harry Muster - The Washington Success Story Of A Dunce

Harry Muster was a graduate of Yale, a scion of a family of old English rectitude and propriety, one of many generations of Musters who had gone to New Haven, but a man with only a kind of dopey complaisance that got him through the Gentleman C provisos of the university, but left him without any wherewithal for his second act.

He raided Hadley Hall, the women's graduate dorm, played bladderball on the Old Campus, and took the NY, New Haven & Hartford to New York on weekends to meet his St. Grottlesex classmates at the Yale Club.  

His first three years at Yale were happy, carefree ones, without undue academic stress, without concerns for his future - a seat on the NY stock exchange and partnership at Locke, Burberry, and Gunston awaited him - and most importantly a harem of girls who had gotten a whiff of his family's extraordinary wealth and social position and who had conveniently overlooked the fact that he was a clueless, aimless negotiator of life's twists and turns. 

For some unknown and ungodly reason - so said the Episcopal side of his family - he found the Yale Chaplain, a man of distinctly secular progressive sentiments and as far from pastoral counsellor as the Man in the Moon, a spiritual leader of immeasurable proportions. God would notice the bruises inflicted by Bull Connor and the bites of his attack dogs and reward accordingly.  

Life might be a journey to The Promised Land but not before a few stops in Selma and Montgomery. Most Yalies thought the chaplain a weightless arriviste and political climber of no significance; but Harry Muster thought him the answer to his prayers.

 

He became the Chaplain's acolyte, and followed the man around from New Haven to Tuscaloosa, sitting in, marching, parading for the black man, eating at segregated black lunch counters, and filling Woolsey Hall with his nostrums about black 'nobility'.  

Harry, without an original thought in his head followed a man without much in his, and together they made the perfect team, guru and chela, Zen teacher and one-hand-clapping disciple, the two together, present and future, marching for God and Man.  

There was no room in this cabal a deux for anything but love for the 'man of the forest', a Thoreauvian primal being that needed a leg up in the modern, capitalist world, so much so that Harry wanted to be black, to think black, and to love these high-shelved women from the Louisiana bayous. 

After Yale, Harry, thanks to the Chaplain, secured a fellowship at a premier Midwestern seminary which was known less for its doctrinal exegesis and pastoral mission than for its social activism.  The Dean of the school had been on the same busses headed south as the Yale Chaplain, and they had shared more than a few beers along the route.  'Thank you for sending him our way', said the Dean, and Harry went out west. 

 

He was lost in the classes on Biblical exegesis and Koine Greek, hoping for something more simple and direct and found himself foundering in academic parsing and esoteric interpretation until he graduated to the lessons on community organization. There he was in his element, no thinking required, only love, ambition, and purpose. 

On the steps of the grand neo-Gothic library, surrounded by cap-and-gown and Bibled academic deacons, Harry graduated, but again had to ask, 'What next?'. 

By now progressivism had sunk its roots deep into American soil and its sprouts had become the top pick of the political elite.  'I am a liberal', Harry finally and conclusively averred, and on to Washington he went, referred with kudos by both the Dean of Students at the seminary and by the Yale Chaplain, now an old man retired surprisingly in Sarasota where he owned a condominium and who was seen every morning sunning himself in a chaise lounge. 

First intern, then aide, then counsellor, then possible and likely candidate for the 4th District of his home state, Harry had done well for himself. 

For a man who had never been sure of what was what, Harry was unfazed by the twisted political shenanigans of the nation's capital.  He might not understand what all the fol-de-rol was about, but he was man enough to storm the enemy. 

As it turned out, Washington needed no thinkers - since they had dismissed Adlai Stevenson, pointy headed intellectual, decades ago they had embraced brush-cutting, peanut-farming good ol' boy machismo ever since.  Harry was in his element. 

In progressive Washington it was commitment that counted - a passionate, ineluctable, absolute belief in the natural superiority of the black man, the indisputable demise of heterosexuality, and the received wisdom of economic equality.  All revolved around the pole of diversity, equity, and inclusion.  The white, privileged descendants of predatory European colonialism were forever supernumerary, life's rejects, hopeless cultural vagrants. 

As a charter member of the Environmental Defense Fund, The Black Lesbian Coalition, One Wall Street, and the San Francisco Coalition For Homeless Rights, Harry was an indefatigable warrior for justice; and as such was tapped for greater things.  LaShonda Evans, senior advisor to Kamala Harris in her  campaign for the Presidency wanted him. 

Despite his age - an old Yalie, however much his wealth and/or academic excellence might still be fresh, was still an old man - and despite his association with the old guard, with the accommodationists Ralph Abernathy and Jesse Jackson, alte kockers and political supernumeraries, he still had some traction left, some passionate pull. 

He saw Kamala Harris as the very embodiment of all that he had fought for.  Imagine! A black woman poised to assume the Presidency of the United States, thanks in part to his unerring and unwavering support and activism.  'Praise be to Jesus', he said before he realized the words that were coming out of his mouth; but there was a good chance that The Lady would be sent packing by the demon himself, the anti-Christ.

As of this writing Harry, Kamala, and every last claque, shill, and progressive socialist in Washington is on tenterhooks.  What if, what if....

If Trump does win, all the collective, treacly ribbons of progressive Utopianism will finally be tossed into the dumpster; but Harry, at last able to sleep at night, never gave defeat a second thought 'We will prevail' he said before turning out the lights.

He had made it, and win or lose he was in the big tent, the Show, numero uno and he would never go back to Chillicothe 

Kamala Goes 'Round The Bend - The Last Days Of A Hysterical Woman

There was no sight like it, even in the smarmy mess of American political history. There was Hillary, a woman of pretentious entitlement who assumed that her womanhood would guarantee the Presidency; and Sarah Palin, another woman of incredible presumption who thought that her time had come.  Both women bumbled their way to political asylum because of those wooly notions, never really understanding what hit them, deer in the headlights of political reality. 

Kamala Harris, like Hillary before her, simply cannot believe that the nation could possibly vote for Donald Trump, a dishonorable, despicable man - a fascist, misogynist homophobe at best, and a spawn of the Devil at worst.  Her campaign has been based on that assumption - the election, because of the man, is a foregone conclusion, good vs. evil, a righteous woman vs a moral derelict. 

'How could he?', Kamala wondered. How could a convicted criminal, a hateful caricature of a man, a proven insurrectionist, and a downright fool be neck and neck with her, an anointed, chosen, courageous woman who stands for everything that is right and good. 'What is this country coming to?'

Despite years of scurrilous, unfounded, ad hominem attacks, round after round of lawfare, witch trials, and universal condemnation by the Left, not only is Donald Trump still standing, but he is poised to take the Presidency once again.  

'We must win', says Kamala, worried that Trump if elected would wreak a vengeance never before seen since God's destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah - vengeance upon her, her party, and the claque of vixenish women in Congress who have been relentless in their pursuit of him.  There will be a new Kristallnacht, a violent uprooting of the liberal ghetto, an extermination of a whole race of true believers.  It will be Armageddon. 

 

'I need an escape plan', she thought, and pictured the border with Canada as the one with Mexico - clogged with political refugees from the United States, all desperate for asylum, all fleeing oppression, persecution, and defilement.  Her border, by the way, and even as she panicked, she - a woman without a scintilla of irony in her fleshy body - had to see something of the what-comes-around-goes-around moment in her flight north. 

The Donald was breathing down her neck and she had played every card in her hand - the racist card (deportations, internments, and desperation of the black man the hands of this white supremist), the woman card (Trump, squire of beautiful women and beauty queens is a mental rapist, a hater of the very essence of women), the capitalist card (The Art of the Deal is nothing but a tale of manipulation, coercion, and bullying), and the abortion card (the man is a papist ignoramus who has bought into every Catholic trifle about 'sanctity'). 

He like Andrew Jackson before him, would push all LGBTQ+ people west of the Mississippi into reservations. If elected he will turn America into a Soviet-style gulag complete with Politburo, KGB, and Israeli security forces.

Yet nothing had stuck, and Donald Trump was as near as had ever been to sitting again in the Oval Office because of course, her accusations were nothing but fictitious nonsense. Yes, Trump had every intention of stopping the entitlements to the ghetto, finally interrupting the cycle of dependence on the public trough and lack of personal responsibility, and promoting the new ethos of opportunity where nothing is given but all is possible - the old American ethos responsible for Gates, Jobs, Bezos, and Buffett. 

 

Yes, he admired and desired beautiful women as all men ever have, and prized those with intelligence and allure above all. He hated the idea of what men did with each other in the bedroom, but, a man of Hollywood, he knew that without them, the critical industries of costume design, hair styling, and make up would go begging for talent. 

He valued the inalterable conviction of John Paul II who said abortion for expedient reasons added another layer of inhumanity to this unforgivable sin, and women should think about what they were about to do - not outlaw it, but decommission it as the go-to option. 

He understood enough history to know that bloody Latin American civil wars, the brutality of African dictatorships, the autocratic, punitive regimes of the Soviet Union and Communist China were insurrectionist and destructive, not the Viking-helmeted, war-painted frat boys who stormed the Capitol on January 6th. 

 

'Fascist', Kamala shouted in Pittsburgh. 'Fascist', she howled on the Main Line. 'Fascist', she screeched in Scranton and Lancaster until her voice was hoarse; and yet of course she had no idea of what life under Hitler was like. 

'I was at Auschwitz', said Saul Katz, hearing one of the lady's rants.  He was being herded into the showers when the 4th Infantry brigade stormed the camp, and freed him and his fellows.  Skeletal, naked, hollow-eyed, and tearful, he ran to the gates and for the first time in four years, smiled. 

Hitler, Katz said, was a man of monumental, unparalleled evil - a devil, a demonic, cruel, demon; and his fascist regime, Brown Shirts, storm troopers, panzers, SS, and all the rest had no match for its savagery, barbarity, and inhumanity. 'Donald Trump is no fascist'; and yet the lady insisted and continued with her vaporous, inane remarks, 'the last resort of a fool', as H.L. Mencken once said. 

So the lady, having pulled out every stop on her Wurlitzer, having piped every scurrilous claim and unfounded accusation, having howled like the Mad Woman of Chaillot, was now running on noxious fumes.  'What's a mother to do?', the old advertising line from the Fifties about a harried housewife saved by an Electrolux popped into her head.  'Indeed', she said to herself. 

The time for temperate consideration was long gone.  Kamala had stepped over the line and now was teetering on the edge of panic.  What if she lost, she wondered, a traitor to her cause, to black women, and the nation - and to that man, that piggish, clumsy oaf of a patriarchal boor, that....

Here she stopped herself.  There was still time to get the message out, but her irritated, feverish insides were not capable of rationality, not at this point where the infection of Donald Trump had eaten at her organs for so long; so her only recourse was to give in to her frenzy, and do a last, hysterical St. Vitus' dance, her own, personal orgy of miserable accusations. That was the least she could do. 

'When will it end?', a five-year old was heard saying to her mother on a park bench in Lafayette Square, across from the White House, referring to the endless hawking and screeching of the Vice President. 

'Soon, my love, soon'. 

Confessions Of A Moral Zealot - A Life Of Good Causes, Left On The Curb, Then Death In A Chaise Lounge

Bob Muzelle was a social justice warrior.  From his earliest upbringing by his father Isaac and mother Cordelia, he was imbued with ideas of charity, compassion, duty, and The Other - this catch-all term used by his father to include all dispossessed, marginalized, suffering people of the world.  'How can anyone call this country great', his father said at Sunday dinner, 'when so many people cannot sit at the feast' and from there launched into his retelling of the Wedding at Cana, the miracle of the loaves and fishes, and the absolute responsibility of every Christian to follow the example of Jesus Christ. 

Not that old Isaac was a fundamentalist Christian.  Far from it.  He was an indifferent Methodist, a scattered and questioning one at that who had kept his union card only because The First Universalist Methodist Church of Great Neck had recruited a fiery preacher from Bayonne who gave the Bible a modern, socialist twist.  'Jesus was the first community organizer', Pastor Evans said from the pulpit, 'the first social activist, a man of faith and action'. 

Bobby went to church with his parents but was more interested in flipping through the hymns, replaying Bach, and waiting to get into the fresh air; and was only rightly initiated when he met the Reverend Sloane Beveridge at Yale, a man of moral rectitude and Christian faith but schooled in the ways of Saul Alinsky and Paolo Freire.  God and Man formed a distinct, foundational partnership, and was in New Haven to promote the interests of both. 

Beveridge was the first of the lot of nouveau missionaries - men who, instead of carrying a civilizing message to the Jivaro and Aymara Indians of Amazon and altiplano, brought it home; and marched arm in arm with his black brothers and sisters to Selma and Montgomery. 

To all but his coterie - Yale students who thanks to upbringing (like Bobby), predilection, hero worship, or absent parents - Beveridge was just a windy poseur - a political panderer feathering his own nest and headed, he hoped, for The Church of St. John the Divine, Upper West Side bastion of 'social worship', a term coined by the then pastor, Parker Amory who, Beveridge hoped, would soon retire and leave the pulpit to him. 

Beveridge spent many long weekends in New York with Amory, currying favor, cajoling, enticing, and finally wringing a tepid commitment from the old man. 

All this was not beyond the notice of the St. Grottlesex crowd - young men from old, patrician New England families who had been anointed at birth to continue their aristocratic tradition.  'He's a jerk', said one, laughing at Beveridge's goatlike prancing to meetings here and there, popping up where he was not wanted, talking ad nauseam about the black man and his rightful place atop the human pyramid. 

Beveridge was as ubiquitous as Billy Graham, counselling deans, college presidents, and wealthy alumni, preaching his message of Christlike love and activist compassion.  A St. Vitus' dance, a peripatetic whirling dervish performance better suited to vaudeville or the male ward at St. Elizabeth's loony bin. 

 

Bobby however, found the man irresistible.  A man of good Puritan stock - he claimed heritage to the Davenports and Potters, founders of New Haven and Yale - Hollywood looks, and a potent message of love and militancy.  Bobby wanted not only to be with him but to be him. 

Bobby, for all his social commitment and Christian purpose had no real moral spine, no theology of his own, no real agenda.  In other words, he was a perfect follower - a credulous, insecure person needing only a kind word of encouragement to send him to altar and barricades in a flash. 

So he went with Beveridge on freedom rides, sit-ins, demonstrations, marches, and protests, finding his voice in harmony with the Reverend, feeling blessed and motivated.  He would do anything for the man. 

When Beveridge died - dead from hysteria said the St. Grottlesex crowd - Bobby was disconsolate, bereft, and all alone.  His mentor, friend, and supporter was gone, and now what? Yet the answer was as clearly writ as the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai.  He would take up Beveridge's progressive cudgel and leave no issue unattended.  In tune with the temper of the times, he took up the causes of nuclear disarmament, world peace, the black man, women, gays, capitalism, and the environment.  He was a whirligig of good works, a tireless advocate for every cause, every issue, every bit of intemperance trouble he could find.

 

'He's a worse jerk than Pepsi', the St. Grottlesex crowd said, referring to the dead Pastor Beverage. Bob of course, given his anointment and holy mission was undaunted.  They were the jerks, the white privileged has-beens who would soon be left out in the cold by the likes of him and his missionary followers. 

Bob whinged and whacked on for decades, never losing a step, never doubting for a minute the rightness of his causes.  Who, if not him, would look after the moral health of the world?

He never saw the handwriting on the wall, how women whom he had admired and put on their well-deserved social pedestal were paying no attention to him.  They sat him in the back row of the auditorium at women's conferences, never once invited him on the dais, and gave him the bum's rush during coffee breaks.

Black people were even worse.  Gone were the accommodating white-black love-ins of the Sixties with Jesse Jackson, Ralph Abernathy and King.  Now there were only do-ragged, gold-toothed, silver-grilled pimps from Anacostia and South Detroit, Black Lives Matter Fuhrers and racial terrorists who hadn't a clue as to who these great men were.  Bob couldn't even get a word in edgewise when they started rapping their ghetto rhymes about the white man, aimed at him, he thought, one of only a few white faces in the crowd. 

 

His excitation concerning the coming climate Armageddon was old hat now that 37 separate predictions of doom had come and gone, and the country was well on its way to adapting to new climate reality, happy in fact that they could simply move their truck farms north and be cooler along the way. 'Listen', Bobby shouted, 'Listen!', but not a soul within earshot was paying him any mind.  He was a supernumerary, a leftover sandwich, a soggy Oreo cookie. 

'Isn't time to let it go?', his wife of fifty years said to him one evening over her famous pot roast; but Bob still had fire in his belly, and the problems of the world were increasing, not decreasing.  Gays, transgenders, Palestinians, and octoroons were still damned and insecure, at any time exterminated, eliminated rather than included.

His wife couldn't tell him what everyone but he knew - he was old hat, a tired, limp, piece of yesterday's sponge cake that nobody wanted.  'Let's move to Florida', she said. 

Now, nothing in the halcyon days could have been more unthinkable - sunning himself on a Miami beach in a chaise lounge sipping pina coladas.  Nothing could be more bourgeois, anti-progressive, a downright moral failure, a dismal, pathetic end; but there he was actually considering the option. 

Luckily the reality of it all - a life that nobody really cared about, all his social activism either for naught or coopted by goons and comers, an existence as pedestrian and unremarkable as any.  He could have been a Walmart greeter for all his social conscience had gotten him; and now that that spawn of the devil Trump in the White House again, a President who in all probability would sweep under the rug every last bit of progressive reform that Bobby had worked so hard for, it was indeed time to cash in his chips, buy the farm, go into That Great Beyond.  And to do that better on a tacky beach in Miami than in some nasty Baltimore slum.