I'm sorry if I'm late to this party, but I can't help it. I have got to say this.
In a little over a week, Scott Brown will be sworn in as ''41,'' the 41st Republican senator. And all that brow-smiting and hand-wringing over the loss of a filibuster-proof majority for the Democrats in the Senate? A paper tiger, baby.
It's time to call the Senate's bluff. ''We're gonna filibuster! We're gonna filibuster!'' Fine. Make them deliver on the threat.
Make them actually stand in the well of the Senate and talk. And talk. And talk. Until their tongues fall out. Until their knees buckle. Until their bladders blow up. They can read Betty Crocker recipes or the prophecies of Nostradamus or recite the periodic table until the cows come home -- I don't care. Just make sure that the filibuster is not a hollow threat, but an actual and real event. Call C-SPAN. Hook up the Nielsen boxes. It's showtime.
Man up, Democrats. It's up to you to guarantee that when someone in the Senate brings out the threats and starts talking ''filibuster,'' that they have to follow through and do it. Enough with the gentlemanly comity that seems like it puts the Senate before the country.
No mercy. No chamber pots. Strom Thurmond hated the civil rights bill so much that he filibustered for 24 hours and 18 minutes to stop it. He prepared his body and his mind for the task, like a marathoner in training. Someone even waited in the Senate cloakroom with a bucket, in case Thurmond's bowels or bladder got the better of his politics.
That's the way it's done. Filibuster? Sure, bring it on. We'll be getting a little shut-eye; wake us when you cry ''uncle.''