The Chicago Daleys

February 6, 2009

Big Dick – Little Dick
Maybe there are “second acts’ in American politics

He has a face that would make a bulldog mother proud. A few more months and he’s going to make his father, King Big Dick the First, look like Robert Redford. When all the poor Catholics in Cook County chip in to rebuild the burned cathedral and they will - where was Pastor Wright when the church was torched? – he will sit above the front door as Galoot, the Harumphing Gargoyle. He has a mug that resembles a 9 year old catcher’s mitt. His sagging jowls reveal the hiding place of all those cookies he snatched as a kid. King Little Dick the First can take it all. He reminds people of the Cheshire Cat. One of his boys is President of the United States.

The beauty of tradition, the sacredness of one generation nurturing the next in the majestic ways of their forebears, is made clear by the oleaginous arm of Chicago politics reaching into the White House.

If President Bambi were to nominate Ratso Rezko and Mel “Sweet Lips” Reynolds to positions of power it would come as no surprise. It would be rather welcome since there would be no surprises left. One would steal a hot stove and the other would hump a snake, particularly a young snake, if someone would hold its head.

When America’s sweetheart, Rahm Emanuel, opens an executive meeting in the White House with a prayer and an a cappella rendition of the official Chicago Fight Song, “Go Fuck Yourself”, he is paying homage to those who went before him.

He is channeling back – Didn’t Hillary do that in the White House to find out what Eleanor Roosevelt did when she caught FDR poking the secretaries? Amazing what handicapped people can do once they set their minds to it, right? – to King Big Dick the First and the “glory days” at the Democratic Convention at Chicago in 1968.

The first thing was the sad sight of gaggles of modern American Liberals trying to get their heads out of their neighbor’s ass because of …Vietnam.

They couldn’t blame Nixon because he wasn’t there when it started

Johnson’s War on Poverty was beginning to resemble Verdun or Stalingrad, Cannae for the purists among you. Each side was hoping that they had more bullets than the other had bodies. If only Johnson had said “I screwed up” the country would have rallied behind him and would have won at least one of the wars he got us into.

Instead we went 0 for 2.

What was the high point of the convention?





It was King Big Dick the First screaming at Senator Ribicoff [D – Conn]. There he was with all the cameras on him yelling “Fuck you, fuck you”. That was the money line of 1968. It wasn’t Khe Sanh or Victor Charley burying people alive at Hue or the US getting close to the moon or the Russians invading Czechoslovakia. It wasn’t even the arrival of Courtenay Chapman Smith. It was the head Dick in Cook County telling a United States Senator where to go and what to do when he got there.

Rahm didn’t get it from the crows. He got it from the same place that Governor Blago got it.

I can only wonder what King Little Dick the First sounds like in private. Based on his public statements – “Us and New York decided not to do that”, ‘that’ being the public disclosure of where he wants to spend all the loot coming his way from President Bambi, The Chosen One – he must sound like he was born and raised in Billingsgate.

Didn’t the best of us wet our pants when somebody misspelled potato a while back?

I cherish the memory of Big Dick leaning over the rostrum and telling Mike Royko that if he didn’t like the answer he could “kiss my ass”. None of that claptrap about “slippery slope” or “chilling effect” for him.

Where is Eliot Ness when we really need him? How about Judge Roy Bean?

Skip Gitmo. Send these guys to Abu Ghraib.