There is an America still stuck in the fifties, isolated from our cities and from each other by virtue and circumstance and the placement of highways and byways.
Where no gangs roam and real gun play is only on TV and children are not killed by stray bullets but by accident and by suicide in flaccid homes, all for the idle dreams of idle men made more flaccid by their flaccid imaginations.
They are white, nice and stuck, flaccid fools clinging to a romantic fantasy that disguises their impotent existence if not their impotence.
Armchair Constitutional scholars between clocking out and passing out. This is flaccid tea party America. Heels in the mud, Palin on the tube and loaded gun in good working condition, exceeded only by that of the remote.
For flaccid America, killing is an idea, a fantasy pastime, a friend of boredom, that seems to bear the right not to be.
Here is the original picture: