Originally posted August, 2005

Like gnats to a dim light on a muggy summer night, they’ve begun to arrive in Crawford. Alone and in small groups, they have found their way to this place, moving slowly and deliberately, but driven by a higher calling, and blisters. What was once a small encampment of anti-war demonstrators is now a sprawling tent-city of sweaty romantic insurgents, singing, knitting, and practicing their golf swings in the hot Texas heat as they rage at everything, anything, and George W. Bush.

It is a gathering unlike any the world has seen, a teeming mass of disenchantment. Almost as one, they raise their heads and sniff the air, sensing the greater purpose, and the lack of adequate plumbing.

Oh yes, Cindy Sheehan. They are coming.

They are coming from all over, banjos slung across their backs and new J. Crew moccasins on their feet. They hear the seductive call of the sloth, the sweet cry of impracticality. They move toward it steadily, recalling the time before they worked for “the man,” and praying that someone would remember to Tivo “Desperate Housewives.”

Anger is the only credential for entry. Anger at the establishment, anger at people who wear fur, anger at corporations, anger at mimes. It is furious party, a self-righteous, indignant celebration. And they have come because of you, Cindy Sheehan. They, too, have changed their minds, decided that this opportunity should not pass.

At first, the word spread slowly. “Crawford” was whispered over 4 dollar lattes in coffee shops, text-messaged into Blackberrys, mouthed silently from behind the tinted windows of a BMW 7 Series with moon-roof, leather seats and night-vision goggles. You did not want to miss it, they cried gleefully. It would be just like Woodstock, only dustier.

Across this great republic, the roads are filled with men, women and children, lurching on toward Crawford. Some carry books of poetry and song, others carry espresso makers and GPS Satellite Navigation Systems. Doggedly, angrily, they moved toward the light in Crawford. Their soft, paper-pushing hands clench reflexively as they move.

On to Crawford, they cry, waking sleeping children and drawing gunfire from local farmers. To Crawford. There, they will rage together, at the government, at the rich, and because they forgot to bring their Loofah.

Oh yes, Cindy Sheehan, they will come.

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1. Cindy Sheehan Mysteriously Draws Many to Crawford
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3. Cindy Sheehan Gets Crash Course In Reactionary Liberalism
4. High-Pitched Whine Draws Animals to Crawford
5. Dear Cindy!