Charles P. Pierce opines on the Florida primary so I don’t have to:
“(I)t was how Romney delivered the speech that was so revelatory. This is a rich kid who likes flogging The Help. There were just enough shit-eating, country-club grins as he delivered his rancid material to show you what the guy must have been like in those golden moments when he realized that there was more dough in wrecking a company than in investing in it.”
More in the morning.
It would be swell if, when the votes are tallied and today’s primary finally ends in Florida, animal control would drag Newt Gingrich off to a small wire cage in a cheerless concrete building, where he could bark day and night and none of us would have to hear it.
I doubt he’d be adopted; ol’ Newtie looks like a biter to me. And before long, that would be that.
Alas, he is a mutt who walks on two legs and thus will remain at large as long as Sheldon Adelson cares to give him a loose leash. The Mouth That Roars continues to generate its own reality-distortion field, claiming “momentum” in Florida — though at least one poll shows the RomneyBot 2012 with a 14-point lead — and canceling press charters to keep those annoying fact-checkers at a safe distance.
This morning on “Fox and Friends” Newt was predicting that “the conservative vote will be dramatically bigger than Governor Romney’s. So we’ve got to find a way to consolidate conservatives, and I’m clearly the front-runner among conservatives.”
In other words, if all you losers will have the goodness to piss off, I got this.
Good luck with that, Newtie old scout.
The RomneyBot 2012 can money-whip this fat yellow dog from now until the convention and still have enough left over to buy the general election — though why he doesn’t just paint one of his three houses white and call it good remains a mystery to me, since he’s never articulated exactly why he wants to be president beyond a general desire to cause harm to humans (so much for Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics).
But since it seems that GOP voters find each of the four remaining candidates more or less repellent, ol’ Newtie will continue barking and chewing and peeing on things until his casino owner decides he’s bet on the wrong mutt in this race to the bottom and has him put down.
It must suck to train and race all year, dreaming about a strong ride at ’cross worlds — maybe even a top 10! — and then watch the Belgian national team gobble up the first seven spots like a beered-up fanboy snarfing down frites.
And if it sucked to race for those final three top-10 places, it sucked even more to watch.
Zdenek Stybar and Radomir Simunek fell out of contention faster than a Mexican national fleeing Alabama. And they were the only contenders in the dunes of Koksijde. Everyone else? Bums, with a one-way ticket to Palookaville.
They aren’t, of course. Bums, that is. But damme if that ain’t how it looked on TV. I don’t recall even seeing a non-Belgian after the first couple of go-rounds, unless you count the finish, where one of the course’s 22 cameras kept tallying the body count.
Between sit-down interviews with the top seven, who were showered off and chillin’ in their post-race kit, Sporza would occasionally cut back to the line to show the poor shlubs finishing two or three days down on freshly minted world champ Niels Albert.
The first non-Belgian (Simunek) crossed more than a minute behind the last Belgian (Sven Nys, who groused afterward that this may have been his last worlds).
I know how he feels. There’s more action in the GOP pestilential contest. Well, more mud, anyway.
The thermometer seemed pegged at 30-something, with a stiff, cold wind out of the southeast. Not exactly ideal for a fat-burning spin.
So, having spent the morning watching the first half of the UCI Cyclo-cross World Championships in Koksijde, I decided to pull the bottle cage off my favorite Steelman Eurocross, pull on most of the kit in the winter drawer and do an hour of light ’cross over at Monument Valley Park.
Ho, ho. Was that ever a rude awakening.
Though I do most of my riding on one cyclo-cross bike or another, I hadn’t done an actual ’cross workout for almost exactly a year, since my knees started giving me trouble in January 2011. A month later I quit running and didn’t take it back up until mid-November.
Now I can jog for a half-hour without collapsing into a weepy puddle of beer fat and bone chips. But it’s a whole other game, running uphill in an ancient pair of Sidi mountain-bike shoes with 23 pounds of steel bike on one shoulder. It was slow and unlovely and caused me to gasp like a Republican presented with a proposal to tax the rich.
But you know what? It was also fun as hell. After about a half hour my chops started coming back to me (it’s just like riding a bike, surprise surprise) and I got a few of those looks from passers-by that I value so much (look at that crazy bastard running around wearing a perfectly rideable bike).
Now I’m drinking a well-deserved beer — nope, not a Duvel, a Mirror Pond Pale Ale — and looking forward to tomorrow’s elite men’s and women’s races in Belgium. Would it imperil my journalistic integrity to say I’ll be rooting for Bibleburg homegirl Katie Compton?
First off, though clearly one of these yahoos may become president, anyone who thinks one of them should be president needs a hole punched in his or her skull so that the bats may escape.
Jabba the Newt should be deported to Tatooine to keep all his ex-wives’ grandmothers company.
Rick Sphinctorum needs an enema. Preferably from Dan Savage. He sounds like Milton Waddams squeaking about his stapler.
Ron Paul is hereby awarded a “No-Class Warfare” T-shirt with goldbug cluster for shamelessly courting white supremacists, militias and survivalists with racist, anti-Semitic, homophobic newsletters and not having the sack to man up about having done it.
And the RomneyBot 2012 needs to be locked into a portable toilet at the U.S.-Mexico border and forced to listen to a replay of each and every lie he’s told while running for president, in both English and Spanish.
Finally, Wolf Blitzer should be welded into a 55-gallon drum full of tarantulas, scorpions and the vengeful ghost of Edward R. Murrow, then rolled off the stern of a garbage scow into the Marianas Trench, for that blindingly stupid fucking question about whose wife would make the best first lady.
Mad Blog Media 