GOP Advisors Drinking Whiskey with Pepto-Bismol Chaser at This Point

Want to run for president of these United States? Here’s an easy checklist to see if you’re capable of surviving the rigors of a political campaign:

1.) Can you shake thousands of strangers’ warm, clammy hands without instantly splashing your palm with liberal amounts of Purell in full view of everybody?

2.) Can you stop at dozens of crappy diners, chug down gallons of coffee chemically indistinguishable from motor oil, follow that up with hundreds of plates of “regional specialties” that you realize too late are deep-fried possum, and then head off to a donor’s fundraiser, where over $10,000 plates of rubbery chicken you’ll try to convince a bunch of wannabe Jay Goulds that you’ll do everything in your power to keep the rabble from burning down their fabulous mansions? Can you do all of the above without retching from food poisoning and/or self-loathing?

3.) Are you capable of telling a national television audience one thing, only to completely reverse your public opinion a few days later, and not break down behind closed doors over how your soul has withered to a cold, dry husk?

4.) Can you avoid calling half the American population a bunch of moochers? [Read more…]

Obama and Clooney Party Hardy

OMG, look how photogenic we are.

Your humble correspondent’s morning typically begins with a quick perusal of The New York Times, one of the few remaining dead-tree newspapers whose prose doesn’t seem aimed at the reading level of paste-eating first-graders. Lately, however, even a few seconds with the Gray Lady sets his already-suffering molars to a hard grind. Every time he flicks to a new page, he’s assaulted by banner ads for an opportunity to meet Commander-in-Chief Obama and Pimp-in-Chief George Clooney at the latter’s Los Angeles abode on May 10.

Yes, for a mere fifteen bucks United States currency—roughly the same price a Secret Service agent expects to pay for a rocking night on the town in Columbia—you can earn the chance to stand in the megawatt presence of the two men guaranteed to transform even the most well-spoken ultra-conservative into a sputtering Neanderthal of rage. [Read more…]

Epic GOP Firewall Fail

Firewall. It’s a scary word that evokes the medieval era, a wonderful little period when everybody in Europe discarded the finer concerns like literacy and culture in favor of perfecting creative ways to rip each other limb from limb. But it’s a straight-up modern term, and one that ends up flung around a fair bit in discussions about the presidential primary.

New Hampshire is the candidate’s firewall, a talking head might opine. In other words, it’s where a particular contender, having built a veritable battleship of a campaign organization, will now pulverize his or her rivals and march unchallenged to the nomination.

If one thing’s defined the Great Republican Slapfight of 2012, though, it’s how the GOP Establishment’s firewalls have so far failed to burn up the gibbering mutants (metaphorically speaking, of course; it’s not 900 A.D. anymore, except in Rick Santorum’s head) intent on seizing that big brass ring of the nomination. If everything had proceeded according to the plan, Mitt Romney would have systematically demolished the opposition by Super Tuesday, freeing him to proceed with his Bain-style hostile takeover of the United States of America.  [Read more…]

Go Ahead. Ask Mitt About That Dog One More Time.

Your humble correspondent is waiting for the day when W. Mittens Romney finally can’t hold back the thermonuclear-caliber rage that’s been building for months underneath that Vulture Capitalist haircut. Against all odds, he’s managed to keep that White-Hot Blast of Fury tamped down on the campaign trail, which he powers through with the pained smile of a man in the midst of an un-lubed prostate check.

How he does it is a mystery, like the Holy Trinity and the place where babies come from. If I spent every day forced to fondle random strangers’ screeching spawn and recite the same buzzword-stuffed stump speech with all the passion and conviction of a telemarketer on quaaludes, I’d be one bad week away from going all Texas Bell Tower myself. If only he’d definitively wrapped up the primaries in Florida, poor Mittens wouldn’t have been forced to keep interacting with—shudder—crowds of real human beings.

If anything’s going to make the Illegul Pinche Space Lizard raise his irritation level to DEFCON-1, though, it isn’t the prospect of another few months mud-wrestling Newt Gingrich for the nomination. It isn’t even the risk of exiting the Michigan primary splattered in Santorum. No, I suspect it’ll be the fact that the media keeps bringing up that fucking dog. [Read more…]

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