Burn, Baby, Burn. Wisconsin Rules, OK?

Hey Govn'r Walker, you're doing a heck of a job! Crunching them darned blood-sucking unions like Saturn devouring his children, searing those Democrat butts with scorching breath hotter'n a Labor Day picnic in Death Valley, raising the flag at last over socialist-FREE Wisconsin, the first sovereign bastion of the truly liberated United States. Huey Long, eat your heart out, wherever you are, and here's hoping it "aint so damn freezin" as it is up here. Shucks, this is a class act, even, stirring up the adrenalin, one could say, class war, and if the Prince of Darkness reigning in Wisconsin right now has anything to do with it, it'll be coming soon to a state capital near you.

From coast to coast, the cry resounds. Beam us up, Scottie.

Yeh, the only UNION around here folks is going to be the one personally endorsed by the Brethren Koch, to whom our citizens will in future genuflect five times a day at the hours appointed by the state. Citizens! Take heart! You have nothing to lose but your jobs, the front porch and the back yard, social security, Medicare, schools, stuffy stupid libraries, not leaving out your britches and all that razzmatazz, once we get those Stalin-worshipping leeches off your backs and shuttered up in the nearest FEMA re-education camps and settle down to the real taste of freedom.

And yeh, two big pokies for good measure in those moist orbs of that pocket Vladimir camped out on the banks of the Potomac, sitting on all that red paint he's ordered to do up the house. Heard about foreclosure yet? Well Governor Scott has news for you. When he's done with taking back Wisconsin from the clutches of fanatical satanic commies, re-interred Joe McCarthy in a towering mausoleum and rounded off the fun with a state fair composed entirely of shooting galleries, he's setting an army of robo-signers on your tail. Good time to organize the furniture vans. And while you're packing up, don't forget those comfy loafers you promised to mooch around in on the picket lines. Oh, and the Nobel peace prize propped on the ballroom piano (needs dusting by the way).

And you guys looking in your little plasma boxes around the world, take heart! Wisconsin is WITH YOU. You toiling downtrodden masses of Bahrain, Yemen, Libya and oh yeh, the big sandy one with the palm trees and those funny pointy apartment blocks, and other places George Bush couldn't find on a map, not to say most Americans, the word coming out of the Mid West is SOLIDARITY. Behold, for the Tweet shall inherit the Earth! Rejoice, Big Mac is watching over you -- from Facebook.

Yes sireee, Guv Scott Walker will go down in the history books as the true savior of America, you can bet your last ten cent cigar on that -- and for that matter, the fridge , the TV and the ten-year-old pick-up. Hey, Joshua was just a little old fancy tootler with that Jericho business. Wanna really rock the foundations? Look no further than Wisconsin USA.

Never forget, folks, that above all America is the citadel of ENTERTAINMENT. She's got the oldest movie studios on the planet. Some are almost as old as the gas stations. She fashioned gods and goddesses in those dream domes, like Marilyn Monroe, so perfect she never knew who she really was even when the drapes finally came down and the organ started playing. From the crucible of Tinseltown came forth Tom Mix, Lassee, Doris Day, Mickey Mouse, Ronald Reagan and others too numerous to mention in the glorious thespian annals of propagandizing the American Dream.

Americans are born to worship diversions, the more rip-roarin' the better, like shooting presidents past their sell by date, in peak TV time. It's an art form, cultured and perfected so that the fine lines separating reality from mass induced narcolepsy are impossible to detect. So, remember all that harrumphing when uniformed, licensed leering pedophiles began groping kids in the airports while helpless parents looked on? Suffer little children eh? Remember mastectomy victims handing over their implants for a ritual humiliating squeeze? Remember how a real looker is guaranteed to get the hot-and-sticky-hands full-massage treatment of the mammary glands and other choice body parts? The Nazis perfected de-humanization of their victims. Here's the new TSA motto: Women and Children First. This way to the gas chambers.

Americans have drifted into these things like amnesiacs, zombies from some Hollywood caper like the Living Dead. Wisconsin burns, but La Wal-Mart, Big Sis Napolitano, is steaming ahead with her plans to convert America into one vast OK Corral. They'll soon be sniffing your DNA when you pop down to the mall for the Saturday morning load-up. Before your very eyes that sacred contract with America called the Constitution is being unwritten, unthunk, to slightly plagiarize Orwell, heading, you can be quite sure, for that Big Shredder in the sky.

Look, there's Charlie Sheen, patently right off his rocker but nonetheless so switched on as to what is really happening in America he sounds like the last rational man alive. And there's Ron Paul straight out of the Old Testament, truly Paulinian so to speak, the saintly good shepherd with his crook who will bring the lost sheep known as Americans back to the fold of the good old ways. And up there shivering on the roof, the shrieking Alaskan harridan with the bubble brain who thinks syntax is some kind of vengeance hurled down by the Almighty. Don't forget Glenn Beck, who stages a nightly scripted mental breakdown that's had no likes since the Fuehrer sang Home Sweet Home at the Nuremburg rallies.

Over at the Wall Street counting houses, they don't pay bonuses any more. They just weigh them. Investors love America, especially if they are accustomed to chopsticks. You just wonder what will happen when the world figures out that a country which owes the world $44 trillion has a net worth (as if anyone really knows any more) of $2 trillion. Think one huge Chinese takeaway. Meantime be consoled. The regulation gutters of Fiscalonia are back on a roller, along with the seedy Las Vegas called the stock exchange (average length of investment twenty seconds).

And there's Little Big Man, creepy General Betrayus, the famous microphone swallower, in all likelihood planning to scuttle out of the mess he has kicked up in Afghanistan later this year, in order to smooth the creases on his kids' outfitter pants and run for the White House. And for sheer choking hypocrisy how about M'Lady of Whitewater, calling for a no-fly zone in the skies over oil-kissed Libya, but certain to lose what's left of her rag if anyone dared to suggest a similar arrangement to shield Pakistani wedding parties and kids' outings from goggle-eyed pranksters hallucinating on some wretched air force base in Arizona, or wherever.

A fifth of Americans shop in the company store, otherwise known as Wal-Mart using the dud scrip called food stamps. The banks will soon own every ungated house in the land, or preferably knock them all down. The dingos are coming to Detroit, if they are not there already. Yet, there's our Scottie with his unmistakable psalm dedicated to untrammeled capitalism. It's the unions what did it. Darnnit, why didn't we catch on to that one before? Cue: blinding shaft of light from the heavens, as God's face appears in a passing storm cloud. But let's be generous. Scottie's put Wisconsin on the map. He's out of central casting. He's pure entertainment. Who else in American history sent out the posses in search of Democratic Congressman who jumped ship en masse? A kind of groupie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with the GOP man from Pinkerton hot on their tail.

Democrat Senators claim sanctuary in Bolivia? In America today, who'd raise a hair.

There are a few things left he could try. For instance he could burn the Capitol down and blame a renegade union leader, who would be subsequently beheaded in some public piazza. After all, there's no business like show business. He could also try getting re-elected, just for the sheer heck of it. Before you start laughing, don't forget a certain George W Bush lost two elections in a row yet wandered around the White House corridors for eight years, snapping his fingers and trying to find where they had hidden the drinks cabinet. Let the sainted Huey Long be our guide. For it was he, it is said, who uttered the immortal lines, "give me the right polling clerks and I can make those voting machines play Home Sweet Home."

Scottie's sacrifice is truly a great one. He has offered himself to the altar of the nation. Big Sis could order public nudity in airports with scarcely a raised eyebrow these days. Rupert Murdoch could be installed as presiding officer-in-chief of the Internet. Lloyd Blankfein could receive the Medal of Honor from the hands of a grateful president. Julian Assange might be renditioned and disemboweled at the Pentagon. The dollar might be usurped by the Hungarian forint.

As long as all eyes are fixed on Wisconsin, anything goes. OK? Tweet dreams and goodnight America.