all the available Democratic diving boards have been closed due the alarmingly high number of recreational swimmers splashing around in the deep end of the liberal pool.
We are aware that al Gore has been relegated to the deep end for some months following his dramatic objurgations of President Bush's criminal behavior outlined in his breathless animadversion aired on Martin Luther King Day and his equally preposterous imputations of criminal behavior directed against the american treatment of its domestic arab population in his even more naughty and whimsical castigation of Bush's visa policies.
The rather hefty visage of a bathing trunk attired Ted Kennedy, in the accompaniment of the back slapping and speedo sporting Pat Leahy, has been seen rubba-dub-dubbing through the white water of the deep end on a regular basis following the televised excoriation and the oblique rambling effronteries administered to Judge alito in that now lamented liberal directed dog and pony show. His booming calls for further refreshments have been accompanied by tsunami generated dog paddles.
John Kerry, who flits by in a full wet suit, flippers, goggles, and on a boogie board, is a full-time resident, who receives his mail at the pool. He's searching the filter traps and returns for additional leads in the mystery of the disappearing election and the location of the moderate Iranian mullahs who are said to be willing to talk to him in Nantucket as he burbles in a banausic monotone about his plans for his first administration.
Howard Dean, the wildly ecstatic mouthpiece of the Democratic National Committee, prone to seething bombast and unbridled irrationality, has been ordered to inhabit the deep end by his physician, who's advised him that moderate exercise and a chance to blow off steam outside of his office, away from microphones, outside the purview of those dreaded reporters, and away from the distorting lenses of the cameras would be best for all concerned. Howard is often seen floating along in the John Kerry's wake, yelling absurdities to no one in particular, his face distorted in perpetual gurning.
The magnificent heads of other Democrats, and their favorite floating toys, bob in and out of view in the choppy and very busy waters — with Harry Reed, Chuck Schumer, John Conyers, Wes Clark, Barney Frank and Carl Levin being identified as flailing around in the deep end of things.
Then suddenly, one of the side doors slams open and a hopped up seemingly crazed Russ Feingold staggers in,
an immediate hush falls over the crowded depths. The catcalls, wolf whistles, mindless yawping, squeals, peels of laughter, guffaws, medicated mewlings, back slapping, water kicking, palm squirting, trunk yanking, bellowing, snorting, braying, hacking and coughing immediately cease as every red eye in the highly chlorinated water focuses on Mr Feingold.
Meanwhile, Feingold - dressed in a wildly exaggerated pair of flower patterned surfing jams, sweating profusely in a way usually reserved for al Gore's patented materialization, with a look reminiscent of the bulging eyes and purple cheeks of Howard Dean, and with the thousand yard stare primarily reserved for Chaugnar Faugn - stumbles towards the water. He stops, dazedly looks around, walks to the edge of the crowded pool, and collapses headlong into the crowded fluid, rife with a strangely silent progressive humanity.
and as soon as he bobs to the surface, Feingold begins to babble uncontrollably while he thrashes around seeking the stability he was unable to locate on the Senate floor.
"I can't believe I only made page one in the Washington Times for my studied and fair call for censuring President Bush. Here I drag myself up there in front of that smug bum, Dick Cheney, call Bush out for his wiretapping and I get nothing on page one of the New York Times for my troubles? Harry? Harry Reid? What are you so excited about? How come you're not backing me up? Come on, there must've been wires and electricity involved somewhere in that sad sorry case of spying? Somebody at the supermarket told me there was. and how come you're worried? You think my measure's gonna hurt the Democrats? Come on ya mutts. Let's all bombard the White House with collect calls for censure and impeachment. If we keep it up we're bound to get ourselves on page one in a liberal newspaper somewhere. Come on, guys? Hunh? What about the economy? It's the worst since it's been since Nebuchadnezzar. We all miss Clinton, right? Jimmy Carter is a genius, right? What about alito? Cheney's quail stamp? They're all fascists, right?"
"Hey Russ," a swimmer yells from way back in a far corner in the deep end.
"What? Hey, who's that," answers the now shivering Senator, who continues to make his points by striking the water with his index fingers, in an ever faster and more emphatic manner, making small splashes as he does so, driving his newest and closest swimming partners back, even as he treads water and drifts farther over the depths.
"That's why you're off the deep end," the nameless swimmer continues yelling from the rear.
"With us," another rejoins.
"Don't you see?" one more adds.
The diving boards remain closed as another Democratic senator joins his compatriots in the deep end of the pool, pushing its current census to dangerous levels.
Then a bather's voice, from somewhere in the sodden mass of vast political percipience calls, "Help him, help him!"
and the life guards are hard pressed to determine who is in the greatest need of intervention among these enlightened Democratic solons found off the deep end.
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