Every dramatic development brings with it unexpected consequences, and Thursday’s unexpected Brexit victory is no exception. Tons of facial tissue is now being trucked into Washington, D.C. This emergency infusion of the humble product has been made necessary by high-level bureaucrats, in division-sized units, weeping uncontrollably at their plush, over-priced desks because their soul-mates in Brussels can no longer tell Brits what size and shape their cucumbers must be, how much power British wives’ hairdryers can use, and how many Syrians, Estonians, and Martians Britain must import by next month. The fear inside the beltway is that this contagion may spread across the Atlantic and that beltway ear-mites may one day no longer be able to tell Americans how much water they may use to shower or flush the john, or about a zillion other things that were once the subject of citizen discretion.
The elephantine bureaucratic state we’ve allowed to metastasize, through administrations of both parties, has done much harm to a once much-more-free republic. And the folks who have enabled it and milked it will have much to answer for on the Day of Final Reckoning. But Christian charity dictates that we at least try not to enjoy the malefactors’ misery too much on this awful day for them. Those who wish to extend a hand to a defeated foe can demonstrate their largeness of spirit by mailing their available Kleenex to Washington. (On second thought, there’s that famous W.C. Fields deathbed quote…)
