Tuesday, May 13, 2008


Terry McAuliffe's performance this evening wasn't quite the old-style, professional buck-and-wing-with-moonwalk that we've all come to expect from him. Nope. He seemed so lost in the mass cultural delusions of Hillaryland that tap-dancing around the plain and evident truth is now futile. It was painful watching him clog like the coal miner's daughter's mom, watchin' those Guccis rattle away to simple rhythms on the plain wooden slats of pore iggerant hardworkin' white trash, God love 'em.

Rational observers can draw only one conclusion — the moribund Hillary Clinton campaign is now brain dead, and only massive infusions of cash, self-hypnosis and jumping-up-and-down-clapping can bring this faint glow and barely clinking woodland belle back from the brink.

Let's face it. Hillary has turned away from the light so many times, come back from the dead so many times, and declared her simple soul so filled with Great Insights on so many occasions that she is obviously addicted to the choking game. This time, it seems, she just went too far.

Somebody please, please pull the plug on this unseemly medical school aberration, and let's get on with harvesting some perfectly good organs. That magnificent three-chambered reptilian heart can surely give new life to the political fortunes of, say, Larry Craig. Somebody can surely use a well-worn spleen, and even those lungs — as old and overused as they may surely be — are pink and salvageable gasbags to save somebody else's breath. The goggle eyes, staring but unseeing, eldritch as they seem, above that ghastly rictus of a smile ... yes, even these may succor some lost pathetic soul who cannot see anyway and has had no reason yet to chuckle wanly even once in his or her or its young life.

Yes, for the sheer love of simple humanity, it's time for all of us to recognize that this pathetic shell, formerly the Clinton campaign, has expired, kicked the bucket, we may say, moved on, soared above in angelic travesties of cloud toward the very heavens, and above all, gone away.

Good bye, sweet bon-bon of past affection. We loved your tinsel-lined pretension most of all.



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