Inflatable Date Night is ultimate proof that Deaf Gahan seeks to emulate Rev. Moon with a hip new campaign finance baby boom.

Yesterday we cast a leering glance at Jeff Gahan's latest stratagem, Inflatable Date Night.

Look, guys -- it's Inflatable Date Night! Ultimately, and unfortunately, this is how Deaf Gahan is spending your tax dollars.

Of course, if no one shows up, inflatable crowds also can be rented.

Let's diagram the satire, beginning with a few demonstrable facts.

1. Following the 2011 mayoral campaign, with nary a mention pertaining to an urgent need to substitute parks and recreation for economic development, Gahan seceded from the county parks department, TIFFed upwards of $20 million, and began a lavish program of ... yes, that's right, parks and recreation construction, the annual budget for which has since risen to somewhere around $2.5 million.

2. Among these was an aquatic Versailles (France) Palace, the financial performance of which has yet to be publicly revealed as it approaches its fourth season of operation, and a palatial indoor sports facility at Silver Street Park, intended to exceed the county's similar unit adjacent to IU Southeast -- with Silver Street home to numerous Democratic Party events, and seldom (if ever) a Republican one.

3. Gahan's personality cult has continued to expand exponentially. Every day of the week, tax money is used to pay for ads, sponsorships and social media pushes ostensibly aimed at promoting the city, but just about always adorned with the mayor's face or bearing his words (ghostwritten by flunkies). They're undisguised re-election campaign blurbs paid for with your money. Last year, the absurdity reached a nadir when Gahan could be seen smiling at us from Kroger shopping carts. On a daily basis, he personally "presents" both sunrise and sunset, and over a period of six years, has yet to make a mistake.

4. And, the personality cult has its own symbol: the anchor. We've told this story oft times before, but it bears repeating. David Duggins, then assigned to economic dishevelment, thought that anchors were "cool," and commissioned a coffee shop graphic designer to create an anchor seal. When asked during a city council meeting, Duggins insisted it wasn't a seal at all, but a "marketing piece" and a "branding mechanism," begging the question of whether it ever occurred to anyone at Team Gahan that anchors are dropped to prevent movement forward, not enhance it. In reality, the fix already was well underway, and not a single council representative had a coherent question to ask. Within a year every stationary surface in town displayed an anchor, and to this day, City Hall hasn't said for the record who approved it. However, it's likely that all upper ranking City Hall officials have the anchor tattoo -- and the secret password.

5. Now comes the advent of Inflatable Date Night, which has been deemed of such critical importance that City Hall's web site navigation bar has space for it, with this bizarre image. This is our government, mind you.

Taking all of these facts into account, and giving the Wheel of Satire a vigorous heave, it's obvious that Inflatable Date Night is part of a larger de facto vote-buying scheme on the part of Dear Leader.

Gahan and the ever-shrinking Democratic party base gradually are hemorrhaging reliable older voters, who at any rate are more likely to be cognizant of the mayor's widening trail of fiscal irresponsibility. In short, they're dying off and defecting, and many weren't ideologically left of center in the first place.

What Dear Leader and his enabler Adam need are younger voters, but they're hamstrung by being congenitally unable to speak to younger voters as (for example) Dan Canon is capable of doing -- hence the local party's widening fault line. The public housing putsch cannot be glossed over forever.

The brilliant answer is for Dear Leader to play Daddy Matchmaker and stage parties like Inflatable Date Night, encouraging procreation and parenthood, thus assuring dads and moms locked into the local system of patronage, as well as future generations of "Democratic" voters brandishing anchors.

From this, it's only a short and logical step to the mass weddings held by Reverend Sun Myung Moon and his Unification Church, except this time they'll be presided over -- "presented," if you will -- by our own central guiding civic light.

After all, we have more than one mega-TIFFed parks venue suitable for the ceremony, either indoors or outside. For those interested in the demented reality of the original template, weigh your anchor and navigate here:

The Fall of the House of Moon, by Mariah Blake (New Republic; 2013)

Sex rituals, foreign spies, Biden offspring, and the Unification Church's war-torn first family

While Moon’s theology had geopolitical ambitions, he saw his family as the means for realizing his vision.

As we've noted previously, the satire writes itself: raging megalomania, family dynasties, contrived spectacles, personal narcissism and the fusion of politics with religion (prayer breakfast, anyone?) ... and what better way to spur growth (and forge loyalty) than arranged marriages and procreation?

Soon the explanation for Anchorfication will become a restatement of the obvious, because if anchors weren't New Gahania's chosen symbol, would they be staring at us from every street sign?

But since the word "Gahanite" simply does not have the same ring as "Moonie," perhaps an adjustment is necessary, as in this entry from Shane's Anchorpedia:

In New Gahania, members of the Anchorfication Church are referred to in the colloquial as Jeffies. 

Today's satire is thus concluded.