Just a knife...knifin' around...cut cut cut

Most pieces written about [Ron Paul] are swarmed upon by throngs of the shit-witted; every single word dismantled, rearranged, and cannibalized in a tragic parody of debate. It’s as if SkyNet became self-aware then suffered a major stroke. Just as it’s true that you can judge any book by its cover, you can judge a person by the type of monsters who vouch for them… As it follows, every presidential candidate needs a theme song, one that telegraphs a plagiarized set of emotions that seeks to capture the rapturous feelings of the uninformed masses that follow them. For Paul and his supporters, that song would be “Dancing With Myself.”

Ron Paul fandom (and oh yes, it is fandom) is a collection of mental illnesses poorly diagnosed…

All stripes of weirdo death-cult, wannabe Heavens Gate and Branch Davidian, square-headed Danny Bonaduce-led racist outfits have strapped themselves to the patina of constitutional freedom because they know it’s the only way to avoid having ATF tanks roll over their necks. Under the wizard’s robe, a whole variety of little cockmonglers have thrived: UFO conspiracy handmaidens, survivalists, moon-landing nuts – the type of people who aren’t against big government, but the grown-up world in general.

At the same time, Paul has found a foothold across the political divide with young impressionable folk who have the clarity to see that something is critically wrong with the project of capitalistic democracy, but not the wit to realize that he’s the problem, not the cure.