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My affair with David Brooks–how’s that for an opening? I dare say a few of you spit out your coffee.
No sexual innuendo intended, I surely can confirm.
What I mean is that David tries really really hard to appear sensible and sane. When Willard veered off into the satanic realms of teabuggery, he screamed out in primal anger that Willard was making himself a buffoon and sullying the non-too-white robes of the Republican Party.
He said a lot of things that were true. He questioned whether Willard had a moral core. He questioned his intelligence and the manner in which he was running a campaign that most pundits would have argued a year ago was a slam dunk for any responsible Republican. Trouble was, there turned out to be no responsible Republicans willing to grab for the brass ring. Only John Huntsman was actually qualified and the crazies laughed him off the stage.
When David is operating in sane mode, I find him pleasantly nice to read and listen to. He makes pretty good sense, all the while lamenting the fact that people like Willard and Paulie don’t represent real Republicans like him. And I feel a tender spot in my hardening heart (nearly made now of stone to anyone who includes the appellation GOP to their name) toward him for being one of the few remaining good guys from the dark side.
Then, David is David.
David feels all the guilty trappings of a turncoat, and no doubt reads one too many of the many vicious e-mails that must come his way from the cavemen who totter out of their double-wides to saunter down the dusty road to see if cousin Jack’s car is still parked in Becky’s back yard, hiding from his wife.
So David tries to come up with some positive spin on why old Willard might not be so bad after all. And so his theory goes. . .
You see, the Crazy Freakin’ Right, embodied in the bodies of Eric Cantor, Darryl Issa, blah, blah, blah will continue to hate the President if he wins re-election. They thought they had this one in the bag, certainly the Senate, and expected to gleefully get about the business of undoing all that socialism stuff. Now they are truly steamed, mostly at that incompetent Mormon, but the President is a daily reminder that they LOST AGAIN.
So, according to David, they will just sit on their haunches and dig in their clawed hooves, and do NOTHING for four more years, as a testament to the great POUT OUT. The country will be a mess in four more years.
So, David, concludes. . .
Willard is actually the better pick, since he is nothing but a shape-shifting opportunist, and that’s actually, in this very special circumstance, a GOOD THING.
Why?
Why, because, that’s why.
Since Willard has no real opinion about anything, he will naturally gravitate to the middle and a lot of grand things can be done in the middle. He doesn’t of course give a tinker’s damn (what exactly DOES that mean) or a wombat’s penis about the crazy Right, and they will wither away in his administration, while grand middlers will rule with some measure of rationality.
Got that?
Except that gee, David, think my silly man, think.
Willard has NO OPINION on anything. He wasn’t such a great governor of Massachusetts if you remember. After his grand health care, which was really pushed on him after all, he did nothing but veto just about everything else while screwing everyone with increased fees on everything. Even breathing required a membership card for a fee, if you recall.
Why would you think he would do the RIGHT thing, being here the correct thing, as opposed to the politically right leaning thing? He could care less. He wants to BE President, not Do President.
Can’t you people see that yet?
It’s a freakin’ crap shoot what Willard would do on just about anything you can imagine. He don’t care! He cares about the photo-op in the Rose Garden with queens and kings and potentates. He cares about sitting for his picture for the hallway of Presidents.
If you don’t think I’m right, well, I betcha.
I betcha he already knows who he wants to paint his portrait. And I bet him and Ann have already talked about the damn drapes in the Oval Office.
Wanna bet?
Existential Ennui 