At least the original wavers of the Confederate flag had the cotton bolls to force the secession they said they wanted. They fought for four long years, too, those half-starved scarecrow boys in gray.

The Republicans, modern day party of slavery, did not fight to the last, ragged, bourbon-and-nostalgia-scented breath.

Instead, they took their stand on a shutdown to which they were not committed and, if you want to know the truth of it, they got their asses kicked up between their shoulder blades by a skinny, jug-eared black man who just happens to be the democratically elected head of the United States of America.

Did you forget the rules, Fleepublicans?

It's schoolyard simple. Don't pick a fight with someone unless you're sure you can win. If you do pick a fight with someone you think you can beat and realize you were wrong, then stand and take your whipping. Go down snarling and biting, like a fighting dog.

Liberals are supposed to be easy meat, all unicorns and political correctness, eager to open the door to the transgender bathroom but not worth Ted Cruz's autograph in a fight.

The Fleepublicans are the party of God, guns and guts, but right now all you can see are the shiny seats of their blue suits as they flee from an ideal for which they said they'd die.

They are guys living within blocks of my urban home who carry bullets in their bodies because they wouldn't back down in World War II, in Korea, in Vietnam, in Iraq and Afghanistan. Not too long ago, a Pakistani clerk in a store four blocks from where I sit, confronted with a knife-wielding robber, took a baseball bat and chased the robber for three blocks.

Not so the Fleepublicans. They said they could take the skinny black guy. They said it over and over and over again. They said they'd stand and die. They said that if they couldn't win, they'd pull the American economy down like Samson pulled down the temple.

Samson was a biblical guy who came along when the ancient Israelites were being punished by God — by putting them in the hands of the Philistines — the way the Fleepublicans were punished in the last election when they ran a department store mannequin for president.

Eventually, Samson ended up in chains, just the way Obama has chained up the proud Fleepublicans.

Anyway, that Samson had a big pair of matzo balls. While the Philistines were partying in their temple, like Democrats partying at a "Save the Whales From Bullying" brunch, Samson took ahold of the pillars of the temple, gave a mighty shove and brought the temple down in a pile of bricks — killing himself, a few hundred Philistines and several dozen goats.

The Fleepublicans, chained to a presidential election whose results they do not like, stood in their chains, took a deep breath and put their hands on the pillars of the temple.

And they stood there. And they didn't push. And they didn't bring down the temple.

It's schoolyard simple. Talkin' ain't fightin'.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com.