I don’t think I have read anything as strongly worded as some of the essays on American Spectator. Hard truths, I’d say.
High water risin’, six inches ‘bove my head
Coffins droppin’ in the street
Like balloons made out of lead
Water pourin’ into Vicksburg, don’t know what I’m going to do
“Don’t reach out for me,” she said
“Can’t you see I’m drownin’ too?”
It’s rough out there
High water everywhere
We’re in for some hard times in America. How about some oil donations from our great pals the Saudis, or the Kuwaitis? Don’t wait by the phone. America makes out-calls only, as usual.
It’s up to the president now to make sure that the high water comes down, and that order returns to the Gulf Coast. Nothing, not even the saving of all of these lives, can be more important than the restoration of the order that American citizens, rich or poor, have come to expect as our birthright. Without it, we’re left with flowing waters and outstretched hands, imagery from a Third World we have always kept at bay. For all of the very real pathos we are seeing unfold before us, it is that specter, I think, that is haunting Americans the most.
New Orleans was ripe for collapse. Its dangerous geography, combined with a dangerous culture, made it susceptible to an unfolding catastrophe. Currents of chaos and lawlessness were running through the city long before this week, and they were bound to come to the surface under the pressure of natural disaster and explode in a scene of looting and mayhem.
Like riotous Los Angeles since the 1960s, New Orleans has been a wasteland of politically correct dysfunction for decades — public schools so obviously decimated vouchers were proposed this year (and torpedoed by the left), barbaric gangster rap culture no one will confront lest they offend liberal pieties, multiculturalist frauds who empower no one but themselves, and cops neutered by the NAACP and ACLU.