One thing I gotta say for you wingnuts, you sure are hilarious when it comes time to pick a presidential candidate and the old ball and chain isn’t standing there right beside you, screaming, “It’s my turn.” No Dick Nixon, no Bob Dole, no “Fighter” John McCain. Where’s Darth Vader when you need him?
I mean, really, is Willard the best you got? Mr. Golden Undies? The son of George “I was brainwashed” Romney? Mr. Romneycare? I suppose you could argue that it’s Mitt’s turn, on account of he won more or less nothing the last time out, that he let an obvious snake-oil salesman like Mike Huckabee beat him like a suspiciously dark-haired stepchild in Iowa, that he could probably win New Hampshire, and that he’s a man of the people that only Daddy Warbucks could love. But admit it: He just doesn’t make your little dark, disused hearts beat faster, does he?
Which is why it saddens me that you lost three great candidates this week, a triumvirate of hoplites who would have struck abject terror into us and sent us scattering in disarray like the Persian troops at the Battle of Marathon, leaving the Emperor Hussein as alone and bewildered as Darius. Had any of these guys been your standard-bearer next year, we wouldn’t have stood a chance against them. Praise Gaia for their brave decisions to put money and mouth before country!
Let’s call them Dumb, Dumber, and Dumberer:
Dumb. That would be Huckabee, the bass-guitar-slinging Faux News weekend host and talking head, whose potent combination of suave unctuousness and smarmy folksiness was a sure-fire winning combination for the crucial evangelical Christians — or, as we like to call them, the “haters.” These are the people who, for reasons known only to themselves and their mysterious “God,” are opposed to sybaritism, tribadism, sapphism, onanism, polygamy, lots of other fun stuff, and, of course, same-sex marriage.
The Huckster was the perfect candidate to appeal to these small-town bigots, the bitter clingers so aptly characterized by His Serene Majesty the Emperor Barack Hussein Obama II, Lord of the Flies, Keeper of the Hoops, Master of the Greens, Bringer of Kinetic Military Action, Vacationer-in-Chief, Slayer of Osama, and Protector of the Holy Cities of Honolulu and Chicago. He moved among them as if he were one of them — which, come to think of it, he actually used to be. That was when he was the big fat governor of Slick Willy’s former fiefdom, a man who spoke in the practiced cadences of a Baptist preacher hosting a radio talk show: a right regular Billy Sunday, as it were, except minus the baseball background.
But then he got the Faux gig and built himself that McMansion down in Florida and started raking in the dough and . . . so long, little people!
Still, could you imagine the Huckinator going mano-a-mano with Hussein? Hillbilly boy vs. the white-shirted, skinny-tied South Side neighbor of Minister Farrakhan! White Christian vs. kinda-black kinda-Muslim! Not since the Third Crusade would there have been such TV ratings. American Idol would have nothing on this show. Nor would even the Celebrity Apprentice. Which brings us to —
Dumber, aka The Donald. Every decade or so, the Trumpmeister wanders out of his Manhattan-real-estate redoubt and threatens a grateful nation with a run for president. Until the advent of television, few folks outside New York had ever heard of Trump, who’s long been the only man alive who can wear a coonskin cap without, you know, actually wearing a coonskin cap. To us native New Yorkers, everything about the man screams Queens, so we never really took him very seriously; in a city filled with real-estate tycoons, he was just one of the bunch, and not a patch on the late Queen of Mean, Leona Helmsley, in the vulgarity department.
But this year, it seemed, The D. got the bit between his teeth, the fire in his belly, the wind at his back, and a wild hair up his you know what. And by golly did he ever bring it to the Bringer of Kinetic Military Action. He had “top people” scouring the hospitals of Honolulu in a desperate search for the birth certificate and they could not believe what they were finding! No records! No hospital bills! No tiny baby Bambi footprint! The fool — any one of us could have told him that you don’t leave footprints when you walk on water.