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And what characters; The "Chicago Boys," Milton Friedman acolytes once no more than bushy-headed, grandma-tethered schmucks slipping off alone after the RISK tournament on long-lost university nights to masturbate over yellowing glossies of Patricia Neal while the hippie guys were out getting laid in realtime. But now (1999) the supply-side gang had their own babymakers hanging out of their dry-cleaned trou expecting payback ad infinitum -- and Rupert was there to help them see that they got it. After all, that's where the money was. And Murdoch knows all about money.
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The 117th richest guy in the world, it's almost inevitable he'd be carrying water for the other 116; the last guy in locks the door, but not before hurling a couple of goobers out into open air in his wake. It seems Murdoch's sacred duty to render us as dumb as rocks and lusting after Megyn Kelly like ravenous hounds too stupid to know the difference between carrion and fresh meat. In fact, he's counting on it. After all, it's his job.
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As it should be blindingly obvious by now, the rich -- a group with whom Murdoch unstintingly sides -- have a plan, a plan that doesn't include you and me, at least on the receiving end of the equation. Aristocrats didn't support Bush because of his religious convictions. They supported him because he'd promised them the world -- and they still intend to collect. Obama's nothing more than a curveball they've already side-stepped, Murdoch's minions countering the naivetà © of the president's benign approach with bucket after bucket of puke and slime, often aimed right in the poor bastard's face.
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Virtually inventing the "Tea Party" phenomena Murdoch has been raising the ante of late -- death panels, unchecked socialism, the right to abort a rapist's child -- slapping Middle America's face with just enough force to get them out of their armchairs and just enough savvy to convince them they've been assaulted by a third party who has consequently just left the room.
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It's all so laughably transparent you can't but wonder how the hell he gets away with it... until you realize that we let him. It's like the old saying "Bush is us," but there are no term limits this time, Murdoch blithely laying out the kitchen scraps upon which he knows we'll feed. He also knows we'll like it for he's trained us that way, waving his wand across our consciousness until our brains leak out of our ears but a step away from disintegration and pleading "Enough! Enough! ENOUGH!"
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