Don't you know there's a war on?

During World War II, whenever you asked for an extra pat of butter or an extra lump of sugar or another cup of coffee, you got the gruff, derisive reply, "Hey, Bud, don't you know there's a war going on?"

I've survived more disappointments in politicians than most of you; because I started out so full of admiration for anybody who got himself elected by the people, I had farther to fall. Our school was rip-roaring in its praise of the Founding Fathers, the Constitution, the public welfare and, above all, never betraying the public trust. With those drugs pumping through me, I survived Sen. Arlen Spector's implied confession that his image of the Republican Party resembled a spittoon. I survived Charlie Crist dodging defeat by abandoning the Republican primary and running as an independent.

Even the best boxer, however, when hit enough, will crumple. She's more than a straw, and I'm less than a camel's back, but I snapped when Lisa Murkowski decided to defy the Republican voters of Alaska and run as a write-in candidate, thereby seriously endangering the chances of tea-party victor Joe Miller to pick up one more precious seat in the Senate.

I remember when you ran your guts out in a primary, but, if you lost, not only did you accept that verdict, but you also endorsed and campaigned for the one who beat you. Your eyes didn't dart from horizon to horizon looking for a way to reverse the vote and hang onto your seat. You can look it up. I was in that America.

If these were normal, or only slightly warped and distorted times, I don't think my disgust would be all this three-dimensional and thick. Now that all anti-Obama comments have become cliché, I'll invest only half a sentence to allege that America is in dangerous and incompetent hands. We've never been anywhere near here before.

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Every Republican Senate seat gained is a step back from national disaster. Not that the Republican Party is a party of gallant rescue; but don't forget the great philosopher of the last century, Henny Youngman.

Whenever you asked Henny, "How's your wife?" he'd say, "Compared to what?"

Compared to today's Democratic Party leadership, the Republicans are, indeed, gallant rescuers. We welcomed the Soviet Union's help in our fight against Adolf Hitler. I'd welcome the Republican Party's help in our fight against Barack Obama!

Don't the above-mentioned Senators and other confessed champions of self-preservation know there's a crisis going on? Don't they know there's a danger going on? Don't they know there's an Obama going on?

No, they don't. Arlen knows there's a Spector going on. Charlie knows there's a Crist going on. And Lisa knows there's a Murkowski going on.

Murkowski floors me. Wouldn't you think a sentient human would conclude, "I dare not let my darkest motives be so obvious up here in the Land of the Midnight Sun"?

By launching, not a third-party effort, but a write-in candidacy, there is no possible translation other than, "I'm deeply hurt that a virtual unknown with tea-party backing has denied me, with my great name and dynastic depth, the Republican nomination. Very well. I shall deny him that seat in the Senate."

In normal times that would be shameful. Today I call it the outskirts of treason.

Once upon a time a Republican Party boss would have called Ms. Murkowski and told her she never intended to launch a write-in effort and the media misquoted her and she intends to visit every one of the Aleutian Islands campaigning for Miller. That party boss – the Democrats had them, too, only meaner – might have chewed a cigar, but not until he'd already chewed a significant portion of Murkowski's hide. But quit listening for such a move; it'd be like dropping a honeysuckle down the Grand Canyon and waiting for an echo.

If the Republican establishment elevates their resentment of the tea party's success above their resistance to the Obama agenda; and if that resentment rescues not America, but rather the present Democratic Party in the upcoming mid-term elections; then we've become a sorry spectacle.

France in 1939 comes to mind: Petty politicians bickering and backbiting one another while the German armies cut through them like a hot knife through fresh butter, the Nazi infantry units grouped efficiently by blood type so no precious time would be wasted on the battlefield testing who could donate blood to whom.

Fabled comic Bob Hope was driving down Sunset Boulevard Aug. 15, 1945, when word came over his car radio that Japan had surrendered and gas rationing would be lifted immediately. At that instant, Bob Hope saw he was abreast of a gas station and pulled up to a pump.

"Fill her up," he said to the attendant.

"Whaddaya mean, 'Fill her up'?" said the attendant. "Where are your gas rationing coupons?"

"Hey, Bud," quipped Hope, "don't you know there's a peace going on?"