O, ’tis a frosty auld morning out there, cold enough to freeze the stones off a three-peckered snow toad.
I haven’t checked the forecast for New Hampshire, where ’tis rumored that the Granite State may lay a nice stone over the grave of Daffy Uncle Joe’s presidential ambitions, the third time being less than a charm, it seems.
I’ll always have a soft spot for Joe, if only for the way he hee-hawed Lyin’ Paul Ryan and his zombie-eyed, granny-starvin’ bullshit right off the debate stage in the 2012 pestilential campaign.
But he’s not the man for the job this time. He has the affect of a fella who feels obliged by circumstances and the voices in his head to apply for a job that he really doesn’t want.
If Daffy Uncle Joe were the nominee, I’d vote for him, of course. I’d vote for Frosty the Snow Toad if he were running against Puffy the MAGA Dragon.
But I’d feel like a fella obliged by circumstances and the voices in his head to do a job that he really doesn’t want to do.
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