What Would Rush Limbaugh Do?
This past week, I learned that the true enemy of free speech might not be Barack Obama.
He may be behind what is clearly a diabolical scheme to confuse conservative thought; but, after a great deal of research, I have found that the true culprit, ringleader and mastermind might be singer Jimmy Buffett.
The revelation came to me as I was about to write a particularly venomous column on the takeover of America by a conspiracy of Democratic hacks from the White House. I wanted to point out that the true problem with America was a paucity of candor and a plethora of corruption from the “czars” in control of the federal government.
But, just as I was about to “put the mouse to the Microsoft,” the voice of Jimmy Buffett came from the Pandora on my iPhone.
It was really 1 p.m. But Buffett insisted it was “5 o’clock somewhere.” Outside, it was about 95 degrees. But Buffett insisted that my attention be drawn to a hurricane, an evil concoction of dark rum, light rum and passion fruit juice, shaken, not stirred, and poured over ice. How could I concentrate on politics when my mind was being consumed by the cool liquor of a Jamaican beach bar?
Suddenly, I found it was impossible to consider deficit and debt. Talking points became jumbled in my mind, confused by images of sailing before the wind with booms extended, jib deployed and a bow pointing from Montego Bay toward Margaritaville.
Yet, I knew I was a patriot. No “Son of a Sailor” was going to stay me from my mission to save America. I needed to ask myself, “What would Rush Limbaugh do?” I knew I had to do it.
I stripped off my clothes and ran into a cold shower. I repeated Limbaugh’s name over and over. I even tried to imagine Bill O’Reilly in a bathing suit as the icy spray splattered my face. That shock helped me out immensely. I knew that there was a way to combat this evil Parrot Head from Key West. My mind became at least momentarily clear.
I dried off. I got dressed. I sat down at the keyboard. But then it started again. I thought, “This is summer. Kids are swimming in my backyard pool. There is a 12-pack of Coors in the refrigerator. What am I doing at a desk typing prose for Mitt Romney?”
I weakened. Like a child gravitating toward a shiny object held in his grandfather’s hand, I turned up Jimmy Buffett’s music again. He demanded that I “change my latitudes and change my attitudes.” He sang songs from his album “License to Chill.” Again, I was wreck.
All I could think about was being a 16-year-old high school student sneaking into the Spanish Galleon at Ocean Drive Beach, S.C., or listening to the Drifters singing soft summer beach soul on WKIX radio. My mind became polluted with remembrances of beautiful girls strutting the Redneck Riviera that is and always will be Myrtle Beach. All I wanted to do was to go to a restaurant without shoes or shirt and demand service.
It was then I realized that maybe Jimmy Buffett was innocent. August was not created for politics. It was designed, as the Zac Brown Band put it, for “toes in the water, butts in the sand, not a worry in the world (and) a cold beer in my hand.” So, I turned off the word processor, took the Coors out of the refrigerator, darted to the pool and began to “chill.”
As I sipped the liquid hops from the great brew master of Golden, Colo., I squinted in the bright sun. I forgot about Mitt Romney and how many vice-presidential prospects could dance on the head of a pin. I even forgot about President Obama’s birth certificate. At this point, my mind wandered toward images of my beautiful wife and children. I became consumed about how lucky I was to experience a cold beer on a day filled with a blue sky in the midst of global warming.
And, except for my personal distaste for ending a sentence with a preposition, I could not think of anything to be upset about.
Robert M. Levy is chairman of the Moore County Republican Party. Contact him at Law52@prodigy.net.
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