Category: Deep political thought

Mitt? Newt? Well, Mitt screwed more workers. …

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 13 Comments

South Carolinians are polishing their tinfoil beanies and adjusting their Confederate flag lapel pins for today’s big GOP primary, in which the serial adulterer is widely expected to slap the Valvoline smack out of the vulture capitalist’s coiffure.

Indeed, the RomneyBot is already rebooting for what Talking Points Memo suggests will be “a tougher than anticipated” primary contest.

The Post and Courier in Charleston is live-blogging the festivities if you’d like to drill down through the smarty-pants Noo Yawk punditry to hear what actual people are saying. For example, Joseph Patterson voted for Rick Santorum because it “seems like he loves the Lord.” Meanwhile, John Davis went to the wrong precinct but plans to vote for Ron Paul just as soon as he finds the right one. Good times.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments
Rick Perry
"OK, lessee here. I got a boot fulla pee. Directions printed on the heel, y'say? Aw, c'mon, Newt old buddy, gimme a hand here."

In heaven, Molly Ivins smiles: Gov. Goodhair will be taking his carefully coiffed clown act off the national stage and slinking back to the Lone Star State (sorry ’bout that, all y’all in Austin).

The contest for the Pachyderms’ pestilential nomination has been particularly feeble this time around, like watching a herd of blind pigs try to find an acorn buried deep in their sty, and it’s caused me to consider whether we need a knucklehead tax on would-be candidates.

Here’s how it would work. If you are so woefully ill-prepared to hold high public office that thoughtful people snicker at the very sound of your name, you still get to run — this is America, after all, despite the Kenyan Muslim socialist occupying the White House — but should you drop out because you can only muster the level of support one might expect from a Nazi at a bar mitzvah, the fund-raising ceases at once, the debt comes due with a vengeance, and you have to pay back every dime contributed to your campaign by people who, frankly, should have known better.

True, it’s something of a poll tax. But it’s levied against candidates, not voters. And it would be a net job creator, too, because all the late-night talk shows would have to rehire their writers instead of just running with Associated Press copy.

The knuckle-draggers from Amen Corner

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments

Christ, we get more bad shit out of Texas Republicans than a zoo vet does out of a whole herd of sick elephants.

The latest GOP dungheap will be accumulating at a ranch near Austin, where a gaggle of “social conservative leaders” — read “wealthy rednecks who either misconstrued Christ’s message or deliberately chose to pervert it” — will spend the weekend trying to decide whom they wish to assume the position before as the pestilential erection looms.

Ho, ho. As if it matters.

These self-righteous, sanctimonious pricks are in the same boat as we lefty-loonie, tree-hugging commies. When it comes to the big prom in November, we have no choice as regards dance partners.

Frankly, it’s an abusive relationship for both parties, the hard right and the hard left. Obama figures we’re not going anywhere, and whichever double-talking fascist finds himself out in front of the Tea Baggers, Elmer Gantrys and bow-tied Beltway boneheads knows he’s got that lot locked up.

It’s all about getting the base to the dance while also snagging the lion’s share of the so-called “independents,” who mostly have already made up their minds but won’t tell the pollsters.

So, yeah, “social conservative leaders,” good luck with that KKKaffeeklatch outside Austin. Will rubber chicken and plastic knives defeat a Chocolate Jesus? Stay tuned.

The cheese does not stand alone

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 18 Comments
Fear and Loathing, Campaign Trail style
The more things change, etc.

So, dead heat between Mitt Romney and Rick Santorum in Iowa, eh? Guess nobody bothered to write in Haywood Jablomie, Jack Meehoff or I.P. Freeley.

Watching the food fight over the GOP pestilential nomination has been like watching a Coen Brothers treatment of Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72.” Or maybe a round of musical chairs with all the participants crazed on mescaline.

Mitt Romney keeps smiling because he owns all the chairs, the building in which they sit and the surrounding properties to boot. But that doesn’t make him any less a bag of runny owlshit that nobody’s buying as long as there’s anything else for sale.

The big cheese may eventually stand alone. All the smart money’s on it. But right now he’s doing a tango with Man-On-Dog Santorum, and he can’t be feeling too frothy about it.