The Democrats are the party that says government will make you

"The Democrats are the party that says government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it." — P. J. O’Rourke

Listen well, O seekers of understanding, to the wit and wisdom woven within the jest of P. J. O’Rourke, a philosopher clothed in the robes of a humorist. Though his words sparkle with laughter, beneath them lies the weight of truth — truth about power, about promise, and about the folly of mankind. When he said, “The Democrats are the party that says government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn’t work and then they get elected and prove it,” he was not merely mocking two political tribes. He was unveiling the eternal dance of idealism and hypocrisy, of faith in government and distrust of it, that has haunted every democracy since its birth.

In this quote, O’Rourke speaks of the illusion that government can be all things to all people. He paints the Democrats as the dreamers — those who believe that through policy, law, and benevolent authority, the state can perfect the human condition. To them, government is the great healer, the teacher, the provider, the gardener who tends the unruly field of society. Yet O’Rourke, with a grin that conceals a sword, warns that such faith often grows naive — that when men believe government can solve every problem, they surrender their own power to solve any. The dream of a perfect state becomes the cradle of dependence, and dependence, once grown, becomes a silent chain.

Then he turns his gaze upon the Republicans, who, in his jest, play the cynics. They claim to see through the illusion, declaring that government is corrupt, inefficient, and wasteful. They rise to power by promising to shrink it, to restore freedom and responsibility to the people. Yet when they themselves ascend to rule, O’Rourke says with biting irony, they “prove it” — they govern poorly, confirming their own prophecy. Thus, both parties fall to the same vice, though from opposite sides: one worships government; the other despises it, yet both are bound to it. Through this humor, O’Rourke teaches a sober truth — that the failure of politics is not only in parties, but in the hearts of those who seek salvation through them.

To grasp his meaning fully, let us remember an ancient lesson. In Rome, long before America was born, the Republic was divided between the Optimates — those who believed the Senate and law could preserve virtue — and the Populares, who believed the people must be fed and favored by the state. Both claimed righteousness, both professed to serve liberty, and both in their arrogance brought about their downfall. As the Optimates sought to protect power and the Populares sought to please the masses, the balance of the republic faltered. It was not the sword of Caesar that killed Rome, but the corruption of its politics — and the people’s unending hope that one more leader, one more law, one more decree would make them whole. O’Rourke’s jest is, in truth, an echo of that ancient tragedy: the laughter of history, tinged with warning.

Beneath the humor lies a lesson about human nature itself. For man forever swings between faith and doubt, between the yearning to be governed and the desire to be free. One age cries out for order, the next rebels against it. And in every age, leaders rise to promise what they cannot deliver — perfection through policy, prosperity through power. O’Rourke’s irony reminds us that the folly is not in politics alone, but in the people who demand miracles from mortals. The state, however noble, cannot make men “smarter, taller, richer,” nor can it remove the crabgrass of the human heart — the pride, greed, and sloth that no law can uproot.

Yet his words do not counsel despair. Rather, they call for wisdom and humility. The lesson is this: do not place your faith wholly in government, nor in those who promise to destroy it. The government is not your master, nor your savior, but your servant. Its strength must be bound by your virtue, its power balanced by your vigilance. When you see politicians make grand promises, remember O’Rourke’s laughter; when they scorn the very system they serve, remember his warning. The path of a free people lies not in blind trust nor bitter cynicism, but in the quiet discipline of self-governance.

So, my friends, let this teaching pass from your lips to your children’s ears: governments rise and fall as men rise and fall within themselves. Seek neither the perfect ruler nor the perfect party, for neither exists. Instead, become the kind of citizen who needs little ruling. Question with reason, laugh with wisdom, and remember that no government can cleanse the world of its flaws — only the hearts of men, through courage and virtue, can do that. O’Rourke’s wit is the laughter of the philosopher, the jest of one who loves his country enough to tell it the truth. May we learn to laugh with him, and through that laughter, awaken to wisdom.