In other words, in the battle between good and “evil,” you are the bad guys and, like Colin, God of Sex in Love Actually, you must accept it, so we can get on with the business of crushing you once and for all, and finally making all of us in the top 1 percent who are faking to be part of the 99 percent proud of our downright mean country at last.
So it really doesn’t matter how many 39 steps or 59-point plans you toss out there, or that on Day One, you’ll issue a 57-state waiver from Obamacare. So what? By then, the poison will have worked its magic, the patient will be writhing like Mozart on his deathbed, and Obamacare will still be on the books, where — let’s be frank — it will stay forever. I mean, if you can’t get a silly light-bulb ban off the books, how are you going to repeal the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act? Go ahead — I dare ya!
Because the dirty little secret is, we can beat either of those two clowns with David Axelrod
’s combover tied behind our ears. It’s almost as if they were both plants, enemy agents of an organization of spies
out of a Hitchcock movie designed to lull you morons into a state of contented stupefaction while the business of looting the country goes on unabated. And that’s our job.
Take Willard. If he sweated more, he’d be this generation’s Tricky Dick Nixon in golden underpants: shifty, evasive, a guy trying to pick your pocket even though you’ve grabbed his other hand and are yelling for the cops. There’s that nervous, giveaway laugh whenever he gets asked even the simplest question about Romneycare or Bain Capital — he’s the guy who’s been running for president for six years and has yet to offer even a single persuasive reason why he should sit in the Oval Office except for saving some stupid Olympics that nobody watched and putting the working class out of work by buying up their crappy companies and putting them out of business. Forget about the anti-Mormon vote; the anti-phony vote will do him in.
Which hasn’t stopped us from fitting him for the fall-guy jacket. What do you think Occupy Wall Street was all about? This picture, that’s what. Why, even now, former Chicago Tribune reporter Jake Lingle himself is out there, hammering away at Willard, softening him up, belittling him, demonizing his accomplishments — in other words, our usual ad hominem playbook delivered in that sanctimonious, unctuous tone that we’ve all mastered to keep our moral bona fides burnished.
And then take SpongeBob — please! Mr. Newt is relying on the congenital amnesia of the American public to forget this, this, and this, which would be fine except that we’re going to keep reminding voters of this. I mean, the man has more ideas than John Kerry’s wife’s late husband’s family had varieties, when all he really needs is some ketchup to put on that hot dog. If Newt keeps rising in the polls, we’re going to puncture him like one of those balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and the fallout will make the end of Ghostbusters look like a dewy morning in the Cotswolds.
Don’t think we can’t retrain our guns on Gingrich in a flash. Unlike our stealth candidate in the ’08 election, Newt’s got a past and a half, and we’re not going to let you forget it. As the Great Axelrod (why you morons don’t take a closer look at his past is a mystery we’re all still chortling over) just said, “The higher a monkey climbs on a pole the more you can see his butt.” Classy!