If the kingdom's pundits are to be believed, on the eve of the Republican National Convention the sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits lies in tatters as wild-eyed untamed PUMAs* frantically pace nearby.
Starved out of their minds and thirsting once and for all to shatter the bane of their embattled existence, they diligently point flared nostrils to the wind, yearning for the faint whiff of politically charged estrogen. For the smell of this elixir would instantly transform the mange-ridden pack into a proud, free, brave coalition of yesteryear, a dream team so close to propelling their once fearless leader through a barrier to hallowed ground, they could taste the side of hash browns, eggs, and steaming coffee served a la Lincoln's bedroom on a tray.
But alas, it was not meant to be. And so, the PUMAs pace, all the while biding their time unable to bond with the anointed one.
Now lo and behold, the Republicans offer a bone. A comely female pure and true, politically charged with no less than an entire state at her command! Wafting estrogen permeates the air, its charge so electrical the packs' downy hairs stand straight on end.
"This is who you've been waiting for," cry the Republicans, "What a grand example of femalehood and she is yours, all yours for the taking."
If the kingdom's pundits are to be believed, the PUMAs pounce, jumping ship from the callous party who ripped the fibers from their very souls. Instinctively, they greet the comely mistress, abandoning the sisterhood of traveling pantsuits lying crumbled in a heap of ruined dreams. They shall embrace her as one of their own, heaving high above their shoulders her glorious promise of future prosperity. She alone shall ride the crest of their fallen hearts. For she, this maiden savior, is their one true hope, their battering ram to height of promise. She alone will lead them to coveted hallowed grounds with open arms and glad tidings of joy.
Only their proud new mistress is not alone. She has hitched a ride on the coattails of a haughty prancing steed.
And in that brief instant, as they eye the prancing steed, the PUMAs see the comely mistress as she truly is. A lowly handmaiden to the bellowing behemoth disguising its maverick airs in a cloak of conservatism. She is female, yes, and politically charged, 'tis true, but in the time it takes to bat an eye, the PUMAs see beyond the estrogen, the comeliness, and her bewitching wiles. Their glassy eyes fill with terror as the yokes of bondage with which the pageant beauty queen wishes to enslave come clearly into view.
No right to choose.
No equal parity with pay.
No sons or daughters exiting Iraq.
No stopping the erosion of Fourteenth Amendment rights.
The PUMAs flee in horror, tails squarely between their legs. They have seen the cloak of conservatism like a bolt of lightening across the dead of night. The comely female is nothing more than a shapely facade harboring shackles of their putrid past. The noble PUMAs have fought too hard, too long to throw each hard-earned victory to the wind.
The pageant beauty queen may break through the glass ceiling, but at what price, the PUMAs muse. They are too smart, too wise to speak the answer aloud.
Hungry and starved as they may be to break through the glass ceiling of oppression, they lick their wounds and return to whence they came. Among the faithful, they reluctantly embrace the anointed. Safe in the bosom of political principles supporting the foundation on which they stand. After all, their once fearless leader did give her scared blessing to the cause.
The sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits may now lie in tatters, but one day it too shall rise. Perhaps not in the form they once envisioned, but with politically charged estrogen, that much is clear. On that day, the PUMAs shall resurrect the pantsuits on their terms, on principles they hold near and dear, by one who is truly of their own kind.
Not a crock of conservatism cloaking an unwieldy steed.
*party unity my ass