The effort, heinous as it was, cannot be grudged its gumption: witching hour prowls around the graveyard, with only the moonlit marble and slate to guide; a feverish excavation of eldritch crypts, reeking of evil as much as rot; the gruesome reconstitution over an unholy loom; and finally, the blasphemous skyward reach of the rod, cursed with a bloodred lightning bolt. The machine whirred into purpose and restored its chained tatterdemalion creature to a base facsimile of life.

George W. Bush now walks again, talks again and insults the living with his acute stench of death.

Though he outlived his progeny — granting a considerably generous gloss on “life” — the eponymous father cannot be accused of playing Frankenstein. True, the mummified remains of an erstwhile president, a nonagenarian version of Steven Hawking whose head was repeatedly bashed by the Dybbuk box, has used his remaining years and functioning limbs to clutch at flesh that was not his.

But for spawn, like father, creation or some perversion of such was never this biddable Southern horror's craft; instead, the talent truly lies in destruction, cranked all the way up to genocide. It's like a waking nightmare world where Andy Griffith's “aw, shucks” pride of empty jail cells is derived from the copious room in the lockup's crawlspace.

So who can we blame for the reanimation of this monster? The “rehabilitation” of this thing?

“In Desperate Times, Has George W. Bush Become an Unexpected Hero?” asks an Oct. 22 Vogue headline sans irony, each boldfaced letter composed of microscopic perplexed emojis. “Wait, this guy? Architect of the Iraq War, overseer of the Katrina disaster?” inquires the lede, feigning shock that murder occurred in George's casino.

Since the next question of the piece was not “Why, God, have you forsaken us?” the writer is now presumably trapped in the frozen lake, forever chewed by one of Satan's heads. Meanwhile, here on geo-hell, there's still the matter of an aimless, undead president in need of a job. So, Bush the Younger, I bid you welcome … to the resistance.

If the Democratic Party and its allies in the liberal press are exceptionally skilled at just one thing, it is amnesia spells of the blackest magicks. Bush, whose imperialist invasion of the Middle East can claim propagation for the subsequent deaths of millions, has had his war crimes waved away with a casual flick of a wand.

Look — and I am sorry to tell you this — but Donald Trump is not a worse president than Bush. Possessing a brain emasculated by dust motes, Trump may well be a cruder and, amazingly, stupider expression of the reactionary id. But pretending horrible people didn't do horrible things barely a decade later ensures that, when David Duke II is elected president in 2028, we'll fondly reminisce on the whimsical notion that some, we once assumed, were good people.

The recent revival of this grotesque husk is far from an accident. It's the intentional and cynical juxtaposition of one monster with another, begging a question rife with terminal cancer of the rectitude: “Remember when Republicans were better?”

Rather than having any sort of strategy, platform or even a guiding ideology, the Democratic Party insists upon you believing that things were different, once upon a time. Oh, there were disagreements to be sure, but our disagreements were civil, then. More respectful.

While there's little civility in waging neoliberalism's wars of lebensraum halfway across the globe, nor is there much respect in using drugs as casus belli against the domestic poor, these callbacks to an imaginary time immemorial are designed to appeal to the “moderate Republican” — y'know, the guys and gals already identifying as moderate Democrats. But nevertheless, they persist in failing upwards.

This was evident at the Democratic National Committee's Las Vegas meetings two weeks ago, as backers of Bernie Sanders and Keith Ellison, the leftwing fragments of a corporate soiree, were purged from prominent positions. Worse still, the so-called “Unity Reform Commission,” meant to truthfully assess the morally bankrupt concept of superdelegates, has zero voices from the Ellison camp.

Here's the DNC's gamble: rather than commit to any type of meaningful reform, we're going to promote the exact same type of candidates as in 2016, run the same failed campaigns and bank on (both figuratively and otherwise) the support they'll have stemming from desperate people who'll vote for anyone — anything — but Trump.

Establishment liberals have contented themselves in recent years to point and laugh at the hordes of conservative corpses tripping over a moral bar only ankle high. But now that the pile has produced a slime of putrefaction, an oily orange grease viscous enough to ooze right under, the urge now is to poke about the pile with indecent inquires: “Hey Jeb! Bush … you, uh, doing anything in three years?”

Amongst leftists, there's been debate since last year's general election debacle about whether or not the Democratic Party, its useful presence in the public discourse and its massive toolbox could be taken over and put to better use by the people who truly care about other people. I admit I once thought this was possible.

But I was mistaken. Seeing now at this All Hallows' Eve masquerade — where the necromancers locking arms and dansing macabre with halfling liches like Henry Kissinger aren't just Republicans but Democrats as well, indistinguishable from one another — it's become bleakly apparent that this monster mash is no longer worth crashing.