I'ma Bust You Up

It's on now. It's on. It is so on.

All according to the script.

When the story starts, your Great White Hope is supposed to be humbled and chastened, stripped of his (yes, necessarily his) dignity and rightful place by the lesser and undeserving usurper. If this doesn't happen, he can't slink off into the safety of obscurity, paring away the excesses brought on by the blinding, shining burden of too much success to do hard and sweaty penance for the sin of being too far out ahead of the slow-witted people who profess to follow. Away goes the StairMaster and the machines that go PING! and out come the sides of beef and the running chickens, which I guess in this metaphor are white people with no jobs and people who can quote passages from The Turner Diaries.

So there's an extensive and NOT AT ALL GAY training montage leading to the rematch with the (again, totally metaphorical) scary black man from Chicago with the weird name.

And now... woo? We have achieved structural storytelling balance! Most of the people are back again where they should be. We've scared off that half-a-communist Pelosi and her awful, awful vagina.

But what happens when the third act is over?

We don't want ownership of the economy that Barack Hussein Obama managed to turn from a City of Unblighted Gold to a smoking crater filled with shovel-defying mounds of pigshit in 22 months. And speaking of craters and pigshit, nobody wants to get any Afghanistan on them. What we need is something comforting to fight. Something defeatable. Something that reflexively scares the fuck out of baby boomers so they won't think too hard out about the imminent drying-up of their social security and Medicare benefits.

That's right, people: Russkies.

Or whatever. Iran maybe, but they kind of fuck up the boxing metaphor. We'll worry about the details of governance later. The point is to WIN. Take our country back! Not because we have better ideas, but because we're supposed to.

Sing it if you know it.