We all, I'm sure, remember the smattering of muffled dialogue over dubbed in the Beatles masterpiece, Yellow Submarine, especially the nasally, “Captain, Captain…”
Today those same words are being transmitted from the Democratic National Committee to the bridge of their premier vessel, the SS Hope, as it lurches along, seemingly out of control, between the rocks and shoals, around the reefs, and through the dreaded Red States. But no one is answering the radio phone in this crucial phase of the passage. The Captain can't be found. The wheel house is unattended. The crew is aWOL.
The voyage began with great fanfare. Captain Howard Dean was a noted seaman, the veteran of many narrow passages and the survivor of numerous tumultuous calamities. Though he had campaigned long and hard to run the entire company, his obvious shortcomings--strident and often bizarre behavior, a narrow worldview, a stunted and quirky personality, his tendency towards over-dramatization and sudden, often unrestrained, bouts of bellowing--had resulted in his near unanimous selection as Captain of the flag ship vessel.
Though a few prescient nay-sayers spoke out immediately against his commissioning, charging that his Captaincy would ruin the DNC, they were, in the end, outvoted. So he assumed command, with sole authority for the daily operations and fiduciary control. He had gads of experience and hailed from the vast reaches of Vermont. He had given up the lucrative practice of medicine to play at politics, which made sense to almost everyone questioned in the process. and above all, he preached a form of rabid anti-capitalist Socialism, the touchstone for success and favor with the home office of the DNC.
as the good ship began its long, and hopefully profitable, voyage, its recondite Captain began to say a few things that, well, just didn't make a bit of sense in many of the ports he visited. He explained that the women of Iraq were better off under Saddam Hussein than they were in a free Iraq. The Captain wryly noted that Saddam's capture had not made america any safer, especially with the discovery of the terrorist training grounds at Salman Pak, where the passenger plane mock-up was located and where hijackings were practiced. He called the Republicans a White Christian party, which garnered some poor press and called a relatively small cross section of his professed liberal ideals into question. and Cap'n Howard reminded folks in California that they elected Pete Wilson because he victimized immigrants. But he was definitely connecting with the people, however small a number.
Over the millennia there have been consistent rumors concerning the direct correlation to be found linking the deleterious effects of excessive spending and the imbibing of strong spirits by sailors. and though the intake of liquor by the good Captain appears not to be a problem, his profligate spending during visits to certain harbors on his itinerary were undermining the successful dunning of the passengers on his ship.
The most recent public filings indicate that, although Captain Dean has charged his passengers a little over fifty million dollars for the wackiest ride of their lives, he has only managed to hold onto a little under six million dollars in the ship's purser's office. The same reports show that his competitors, sailing on the SS Incumbent, have taken in over one hundred million at the gate and have managed to keep better than thirty four million dollars in their ship's safe. It has become apparent that Cap'n Howard's operating costs are skyrocketing, cash flow is down, fuel is running low, the gaming tables are showing losses, liquor sales are flat and the home office is calling.
There is growing concern among the Democrats--especially the ever pert, superbly turned out and magnificently coiffured Nancy Pelosi, who sits on the executive board, and whose opprobrium is to be feared--that things with the Captain have gone awry. While Harry Reid, the somewhat prating, supremely confident, often forgetful and Senior Partner of Dewey, Cheatham & Howe--the perpetual advisors to the DNC, america in general and to the SS Hope on every occasion--has expressed a growing ire with the Captain's leadership, his ability to manage the finances and his sartorial achievements. Rumors concerning the comingling of funds have surfaced, while talk of the Captain's trenchant calling for exhorbitantly priced Vermont ice cream at every opportunity has not gone without notice.
at long last, the Captain--in a perpetual daze, the ship lost in a thick smoggy haze, the crew in a monotonous funk--finds his way to the empty bridge, hears the endless pinging of the radiophone, lifts the receiver, pushes the button on the handset, belts out his name with that characteristic raspy off-key high pitched tremolo and is taken aback by the litany of concerns boiling through the headset from the Director and Senior Partner in the home office with an increasingly hot ear…
“You're spending priorities are in the wrong place. You don't know what you're doing with the money. You're throwing it all down a rat hole in those Red State ports of call where we don't even have a terminal yet. Why don't you spend it where we have the slightest chance of building one? Don't you have the slightest conception that not all resorts are of the same caliber? You and your crew are living pretty high with the passenger's money. The other shipping line is killing us with the dough. Do you have any idea where you are right now and where you're going? What did you do with all the maps we sent you? are you listening to us? are you still there? Captain Howard? Hello?”
Cap'n Howard placed the receiver back in its cradle, cutting off the radio link, looked out the steamy window into the darkness and wondered just where'n the deuce he was, what exactly he was doing and how many life boats were available for the passengers and crew. Then he remembered that there was no space on a boat or a raft for the Captain.
Nancy, shocked at the instability in the Captain's voice and manner, and deeply concerned by the growing evidence of his total mismanagement and his sheer incompetence, turned to look Harry in the eyes.
at exactly the same time, both uttered, “The Captain's adrift.”
“Yes,” Harry added, then wheezing malevolently, “and he's burning money like there's no tomorrow.”
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