A master artist with a word brush takes on the candidates. He hits the home run with the dems.
First Trump and the gang.
Thank God that’s over. You don’t have to be an Amtrak conductor to want to punch the next guy who says, “There are three tickets out of Iowa.” In the end, Ted Cruz won eight delegates and Donald Trump seven. Which doesn’t sound so bad for Trump. Except that Marco Rubio also won seven delegates. Had the caucus been held 24 hours later, Rubementum might have pushed Trump to third place.
There’s no point pretending it wasn’t a setback for the billionaire party-crasher. Who knows why it happened? Perhaps he should have taken his own advice and shot a guy on Fifth Avenue: That’s gotta be worth a couple of points in Polk County. For over six months, each supposedly fatal misstep – from McCain to Muslims – only made him stronger. Now the first actual votes of this interminable process have made him weaker. For a candidate running on the platform that he’s a winner and the other guys are losers, the aura of invincibility depended on the perception of invincibility. So it’s not helpful to let five thousand hayseeds shuck Trump Tower like a corncob. Doing without consultants, doing without ads, doing without Fox News, doing without National Review, doing without debates …great, great, love it. But doing without voters is a trickier proposition. This week the Trump campaign sent my 15-year-old kid, who lives in New Hampshire, a reminder to make sure he caucuses in Iowa.
Rubio did the usual caucus-night thing. He came third so he hailed himself as the most stunning victor since Wellington at Waterloo and then segued into the stump-speech bollocks about being the son of a bartender and promising a new American century. Ted Cruz followed with a victory speech that lasted most of the new American century. It was the kind of ruthless Canadian triumphalism older Americans haven’t seen since the War of 1812, which, like Cruz’s speech, went on into the following year. If he wins again next Tuesday, let’s hope he cuts to the chase and burns down the White House.
But is comments on HRC and Bill. I’m still laughing.
~On the Democrat side, I was rooting for Bernie, and have been for seven months, back when Hillary was at 63 per cent in Iowa and Bernie at 14:
He would be the oldest man ever elected president and 83 years old at the end of two terms – which we won’t have to worry about because the entire country will have slid off the cliff long before then. But he’s enthusing the base, and any base wants to be enthused.
Hillary, by contrast, is in trouble not because she’s a sleazy, corrupt, cronyist, money-laundering, Saud-kissing liar. Democrats have a strong stomach and boundless tolerance for all of that and wouldn’t care were it not for the fact that she’s a dud and a bore. A “Hillary rally” is a contradiction in terms: the thin, vetted crowd leave more demoralized and depressed than when they went in. To vote for Bernie is to be part of a romance, as it was with Obama. To vote for Hillary is to validate the Clintons’ indestructible sense of their own indispensability – and nothing else. Hillary is a wooden charmless stiff who supposedly has enough money to be carefully managed across the finish line. But that requires Democratic electors to agree to be managed, too, and the Sanders surge is a strong sign that, while they’re relaxed about voting for an unprincipled arrogant phony marinated in ever more malodorous and toxic corruption, they draw the line at such a tedious and charisma-free specimen thereof.
All of that was fully in evidence at last night’s rally. The only personable Clinton stood behind Hillary looking like an emaciated wraith of the Slick Willie of yore. Decades of interns appear to have literally sucked all the life out of him, leaving only (one presumes from friend Epstein’s Lolita Express flight records) his distinguishing characteristics with any flicker of vitality. Judging from her brief but disastrous intervention in New Hampshire the other week, young Chelsea appears to have inherited her mother’s warmth and personal touch. That left Hillary barking across the midnight hour like a malign Speak-Your-Weight Machine with a jammed quarter.
You can’t beat this man’s mind. You can’t.
I’m tired from laughing. Enjoy… (emaciated wraith of Slick Willie of yore…)