It looks like the Republican Party has come to its senses.

The Tea Party has reached its zenith and is beginning a long slide towards decline. When was the last time we heard from them? The populist revolt, the GOP of Joe the Plumber, the day of the cloth-coat Republican and the Reagan Democrat has come to an abrupt end. They are now more of a threat than an asset.

Who speaks for them any more? Bachmann and Cain are gone. The first ignored, the latter assassinated in the forum. The survivors quickly fell into line, or lapsed into obscurity. The only ones left seemed tailor-made to lead the revolt; the pert and saucy Mama Grizzly voice of frontier Alaska, the tough-talking cowboy from the Texas border country, and the intellectual eminence grise barroom brawler and longshoreman-enforcer that balanced the budget, stopped Clinton single-handedly and who was going to rip off the Pretender’s Socialist mask.

But they went too far, they dared question the orthodoxy, the sacred texts, the very soul of conservative economics, they dared to presume to really know the way. Their usefulness is over. They are no longer needed, and they have become a threat.

The Party elders acted with blinding speed. Wielding the newly-created secret money batallions and their deep roots in the FOX and Wall Street press, they cut off the usurpers at the knees. Even Limbaugh was brought into line, ordered to choose sides, and he quickly chose the winning one. The loyal barons and princes of the church quickly queued to pledge their allegeance and declare their solidarity. Early in the year they struck, and in a matter of days order was restored and the forces of orthodoxy once again reigned supreme. The country store rabble has been replaced by the country club gentry, and their shining champion knighted.

History repeats itself, like a Baroque fugue, the theme familiar but always with variations. the Night of the Long Knives is over, can the Night of Shattered Glass be far behind?

On the ground lies the once-proud yellow banner, the broken snake and the Don’t Tread on Me slogan obscured by muddy footprints–all marching, in lockstep, in one direction.