WHAT IS A GOPSTER? You’d like to know. Well, allow me, it is to say that in terms of the latest of lights at tunnel’s end where at last the bridging rubber road meets the words to be told like beads on a string, a Gopster is, definitively, one to mumble a dozen times each matin: Benghazi, Benghazi, , , one in a million, that is, who each and every one throws in a 9/11, now and again, just to flavor the phrasing.

Only get to thinking about it and about: a Gopster is an arse upon which everything has sat but a man, but/and shall nevertheless have authority to play poet, to conjure images for some us who are, say, Americans. Mr. Gohmert, bless his heart and pointy head, would be bard. Mr. Gohmert himself, as it turns out, is enlarged, by office, to be a very figure of speaking petomanically-controlling flatulence. As Casey Stengel might have pronounced it, little Louie Gohmert is not an educated man, but, variously and on the other hand, he is not at all troubled in any recognizable way by (say) intelligence. Really, quite the opposite. Mr. Gohmert can pass without comment as bellwether bleater of Gopster poesy — a merry merry little metaphor, a Gopster, of a mind, that is, never to have been, never to be, violated by an idea.