The senator wants out. Bulworth, now giddy in his new enthusiasm, emerges periodically from his prolonged collapse to skewer his targets. His staff aides are the morally neutered twenty-something spin doctors we have to endure on the nightly news. In a steady stream of lyric commentary, he paints a grotesque picture of today's interlocking power blocs dedicated to enriching themselves and deceiving the public. He peppers us with images of news commentators whose salaries are paid by the entertainment giants who own the networks.
People are irrelevant.
This man pulls no punches, and once again, he's mad. He holds our heads under the foul water of American politics, letting us up only to consider another ugly piece of the national puzzle. He yanks us from the political passivity that has become our only refuge and forces us to become alive again in anger. Best of all, he has done it not with a lecture, but with an incoherent, nearly delirious humor. And by the way, white men can't rap.