Mr. Congress and his chickens - Hattiesburg American

The buffoonery of our leadership during these hard times is some show. I don't know if it's horror or a Chevy Chase remake. But a simple analogy comes to mind.

Let's say that an urbane gent, Mr. John B. Congress, retires to a mini-farm with chickens and several nice tame goats. He putters around his new digs and plans to stay awhile. But his chickens start getting sick and collapsing into heaps of feathers!

Now his city relatives, John and Mary Q. Public, demand action because they funded his little venture, and he gives them eggs and goat milk. Now they really know nothing about farming and hens, but they have all kinds of info from the cable news networks which spew out lots of agricultural hints daily.

Nearby, Bob President, also farming, and set up with some support from the extension service, has his ideas as well.

At the university, folks with research in hand and historical perspective, Henry Expert and Nancy Knowledgeable, have sent text messages to Mr. Congress about remedies for the falling down hens.

But Mr. Congress, afraid of his relatives, the Publics, is convinced he should try their suggestions and is somewhat disdainful of Mr. President and the "elitists."

So he continues to sputter and fume and "work on" things to please the Publics, annoy Mr. President, and, generally, act the fool as more and more hens succumb.

Now Bob President, indeed, may have nefarious reasons for offering advice, wanting some of Mr. Congress's land, perhaps.

But Mr. Expert and Miss Knowledegable are ready to help, have no agenda, and have analyzed the problem. These are not the first falling down hens they have encountered.

Yet Congress turns a deaf ear, President keeps offering solutions, and the Publics, well-meaning but wrongheaded, endorse rantings put forth by local radio shows which have taken up the cause, as well as the Chicken Farmers Association and several members of the Chickens Have Rights action group.

All the cacaphony has Mr. Congress in a tizzy making promises to everybody to clear up the nasty situation. He visits with the interested parties, mourns each hen that passes out, smiles at Mr. President and displays outward signs of being in control.

But when in his farmhouse alone, he breaks into a sweat and wipes his brow. He no longer worries about the hens. He has his own hide to think about.