Saturday, April 04, 2015
(Thanks it Mark Urbin for the image)
Unfortunately the answer is yes.
This what happens when the other party is allowed to get away with cheating. There is simply no excuse for this walking piece of excrement to occupy a seat in the United States Senate.
A few years ago I wrote a bit of short fiction depicting the proper disposal of a simular piece of excrement:
I had to do an Urquhartcide today.
Al Stein was by his own claim and the opinion of the morally and esthetically dysfunctional members of self-styled intellectual class a comedian. In fact he was a boring old socialist drone with delusions of talent. He was also a political commentator with delusions of credibility. His most recent misadventure prior to standing as a candidate for the U.S. Senate from Minnesota was as a talk show host on the Socialist talk radio network known as Air America.
I recall when Air America -- more properly labeled as Radio Pravda -- started up, the local affiliate put up posters at bus stops proclaiming that it was "talk radio without the lies." Something that could only be achieved by a Socialist radio station by the broadcast of dead silence.
So anyway Comrade Stein ran for the Senate against the incumbent Republican Norm Colman. Norm is a nice guy, but like most Republicans he's too nice. He won but the margin of victory was close enough under state law to mandate a recount.
This was where the problem really became apparent.
Local election officials, all Democrats of course, began reporting misplaced ballots or other forms of counting errors to the state election board. All of these so-called corrections favored Comrade Stein. It was very readily apparent that this senate seat was about to be stolen.
On top of this some of Comrade Stein's supporters were camped out on the front yard of his residence in Minneapolis. This had the effect of severely limiting our other options for solving the problem.
However an opportunity opened up when the owner of a new Italian restaurant, who wasn't terribly fond of Marxists, tipped us off that Comrade Stein had made reservations for Saturday night. I asked the owner to reserve a table for two on the same night.
My companion for the evening was a junior secretary from the local British consulate. She was in fact one of Corder's people, sent here to support JM and I in our plot to "dominate the world." I sat with my back to Comrade Stein and his party.
La Gondola, the new restaurant, had opened in the space formerly occupied by a Tex-Mex eatery on the southeast corner of Seventh Street and Hennepin Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. While waiting for the opportunity to solve the Stein problem I spoke to my dinner companion about the history of the building.
"Right over there," I pointed to the corner of the building on the intersection, "was one of the two Fanny Farmer candy shops I worked at after school."
"What did you do?" She asked.
"Light janitorial stuff." I said. "Two days a week here. Tuesday and I had the choice of working on either Thursday or Saturday. I picked Saturday."
"Well...why Saturday?" She was puzzled.
"I didn't want be dragged up to my family's lake place on the weekends... boring as Hell."
"I didn't know you were that well off?" She was surprised.
"We weren't" I replied.
She looked over to Comrade Stein's table.
"Some of those people are making obscene gestures at us," she said.
"Being a Superior Being means never having to behave like a civilized person." I said. "Marxists are funny that way."
She looked over there again.
"Stein's up. He's going to the rest room," she said.
"If you will excuse me." I said as I stood up.
I removed a stainless steel ball point pen from a pocket and placed it in my left hand as if it were an unlit cigar. Comrade Stein was alone and preening himself when I entered the rest room.
"Al," I said, "we need to talk."
"Fuck off!" He replied.
I ignored it.
"You know," I said, "FU could get pretty rough on his opponents, but there one thing he never did, and that was to fuck with the ballots."
Comrade Stein's image in the mirror glared at me.
"What part of 'Fuck off' did you NOT understand?" He growled.
"Nobody steals an election in this state." I said. "JM's going to appoint a special prosecutor after the inauguration. You will be removed from that seat and Lieutenant Governor Pawlenty will appoint Norm to finish out the term. You can walk away from this and save us all the fuss and bother. All you have to do is concede."
Comrade Stein turned towards me.
"We WILL take the White House!" He snapped. "And we WILL snuff out you FASCISTS once and for all!"
He was referring to the ongoing effort of his party to lawyer their way into the White House. And of course he also referred to the well documented homicidal tendencies of the Left toward those who refuse to submit to their will.
He returned to the image in the rest room mirror.
Of course the basic difference between Comrade Stein and a proper old-school Fascist was the silly uniform. But mentioning that would do no good at this point. I consciously decided to emulate JM's late uncle, Francis Urquhart.
"You may very well think that," I said, "but what you're moving towards is a civil war, and I seriously doubt that the United States Army will obey the orders of a Chicago Marxist who has obviously stolen the election, like the Big Zero. You will lose."
Comrade Stein snarled one more time.
"You're going to a supermax!" Which was the worst type of prison in the United States. "You're going to get raped and die of AIDS you piece of shit!"
It is simply not possible to reason with someone who believes that you have no right to live.
There was one thing that could only be done at this point. I switched the pen from left hand to the right and jabbed the point into Comrade Stein's back. I clicked the stud that would normally extend the ball point for writing but which instead extended a tiny needle into his back.
I pulled the pen out and put it back into my pocket.
Comrade Stein spun around.
"What was that?!" He yelled.
"A nonpersistent neurotoxin." I replied. "It won't show up in the autopsy."
Comrade Stein tried to leave the rest room. With my right arm I stopped him and shoved him back into the wall. The toxin was already weakening him.
"Comrade Lenin once said that the ends justify the means." I spoke softly. "You didn't really believe that we would be any less ruthless?"
Comrade Stein tried to speak one more time as I held him to the wall with my right hand.
"It's not personal Al, it's politics."
Comrade Stein collapsed to the floor and ceased breathing.
It was at this point that I stepped out of the rest room and raised my voice as if I were still a sergeant in the Army.
"Al Stein just collapsed on the floor, someone call nine-one-one!"
All of Comrade Stein's dinner companions, regardless of their gender, entered the Men's rest room while I returned to my table.
Our meal for the evening had not arrived at the table yet. I gestured to our waitress and pulled out a credit card.
"Is there a problem, sir?" She said.
"Apart from the commotion, no." I said as I handed her the credit card. "Could we have the check please?"
Two of Comrade Stein's companions, one of each gender, stumbled out of the Men's rest room. The female was moaning something about Stein being dead. The male stared at me for a moment and then began to look around for something. I placed my right hand on the Glock 36 that I carried concealed in a belt holster, ready to draw on the thug. He grabbed a wine bottle off of one of the tables when two Minneapolis officers entered the restaurant.
The waitress returned to the table with the check and my credit card just as the cops were placing the agitated Marxist goon in handcuffs. I wrote in a substantial tip and then handed the pen to my dinner companion.
"Your pen madame." I said as she accepted the pen and placed it in her purse.
With that gesture the instrument of my latest homicide was placed beyond the reach of the police.
I had to give a statement to the local cops. I said that Al Stein had collapsed when I told him that he would be prosecuted for election fraud.
"Some of his people are saying that you killed him." Said one of the cops.
"Only if 'President-March' is a killing word."
I had to explain the reference.