Stop the Bus I want to get off!
During our conversation, he also cautioned that any alteration or adjustment, no matter how small, is like a "V" in the road...a fork, if you will. At the point of origin where the choice of roads begins, you find yourself in one location discovering a safety net in the ability to touch both roads. But, as you travel down the road to the left, the road to the right gets further and further away. Initially, when you can still see the right road as you travel down the left, there's no panic. If this road gets too bumpy, you can turn around and still get back to the right road. But, as you continue travelling down the left road, investing a great deal of time and effort, you end up many miles away from the right road and the ability to turn around. Soon, the destination that would have befallen you at the end of the right road is only visible in your dreams.
It would appear that-as a nation-we are riding on a big bus down the left road. The decision as to which road to take was decided for us by our driver over 15 months ago. We were told to sit down and shut up and leave the decision making to him. Only he can keep us on the road. Now, as the right road disappears; in the back of the bus, we've got 65% of the passengers screaming for the bus to stop, begging to get off. Hell, just slow down; we'll jump while moving if necessary! He is oblivious to our concerns and to the obstacles that our founding fathers put in the road ahead of him: The Constitution, checks and balances, fair representation, no excessive taxation and above all else; the truth.
The driver, a union worker named Obama, has a different destination in mind. He knows the best shortcuts and all of the pitfalls along the way. He's had several other drivers before him map the road to the potholes and obstacles, so his journey is swift. The placard above his head reads: "if you don't like my driving, you're a racist and extremist". In the rear-view mirror is a broken sign laying in the road. Having been run over by the pothole-dodging bus, the bent and mangled sign reads: "Destination Socialism 18 months". The driver presses down hard on the accelerator pedal; as he races toward the finish line before more of his passengers become too unruly and decide to jump at full speed, or, God forbid, choose to appoint another driver.