And then came the release of the birth certificate and the White House Correspondents Dinner and that was the end of Donald J. Trump. So what if the birth certificate is signed by some guy named Ukulele? According to my top people on the ground at Waikiki Beach, everybody in Honolulu is named Ukulele, and they’re all on their way to the Huki-huki-huki-huki-lau. Aloha dere, brah — smatta you?
Oh, how your faces must have fallen as The Donald sat there at the WHCD, absorbing slap after slap from Barry and that comedian guy, what’s his name. You suckers all thought he would rise up in righteous wrath, brandishing an advance copy of Jerome Corsi’s new book and storming out. But no. As Bogey says to Peter Lorre in The Maltese Falcon, “When you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it.”
He took it and liked it. But have no fear — The Donald will be back again in ten years, same bat-guano time, same bat-guano station.
Speaking of bat guano . . .
Dumberer. Who else but SpongeBob Squarepants could start and end a presidential campaign practically on the same day? All it took was one little waddle into the lion’s den we progressives know and love as Meet the Press, hosted, thanks to the untimely demise of Tim Russert, by the epitome of the Lefty SneerTM, David Gregory. When he was a “reporter,” Gregory could sass &^%$BUSH(*@#! to his face like nobody’s business, and now that’s he a Sunday show host, it’s Katie bar the door: If Gregory doesn’t get ya, E. J. Dionne Jr. will. I’m told that in the green room, the sign leading into the studio reads, Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate, on the theory that only a Republican would actually be well-read enough to get the reference. But Newt came to Catholicism late, so he obviously skipped the altar-boy part.
“Right-wing social engineering?” Hoo, boy — he’s been trying to ’splain his way out of that one all week. Mission fail! The space shuttle has a better chance of a comeback than Mr. Newt, a man of the Nineties when the country is looking for . . .
Well, I don’t know. We’re hoping you’ll swallow the Axelrodian mythos one more time, and realize that Barry had no idea how bad things were when he got bored sitting in the Senate and decided, what the hell, why not run for the White House? That he’s tried his best in the teeth of, to be honest, mostly toothless Republican opposition. That he shoved health care down your gullets because it made him feel better about fundamental transformation. Now he’s got comprehensive immigration reform to deal with, and cutting Israel back down to its 1967 size to handle, and new EPA regulations to promulgate, and Boeing to treat like The Donald . . .
Two years in, it’s never too early for four more years!
And what are you going to do about it? Support the pizza guy? The Chinese guy? The accountant?
Come back, John McCain, your country needs you. We were really, really scared of you.
— David Kahane is getting plenty of cheap yuks from the Republican field, which he’s thinking about incorporating into a stand-up act. You can audition for the writing staff by emailing him at [email protected] or by becoming one of his Rules for Radical Conservatives groupies on Facebook. Just don’t mention the names of Chris Christie, Allen West, Marco Rubio or Rick Perry, or he’ll have to say: You’re fired.