In which Rick Santorum is both floridly insulted and attacked by a rodentPosted: February 10, 2012
The seemingly endless transition from one Mitt-free alternative to another, and the increasing perception that the great dealmaker can’t close this deal, must be causing some epic hissy fits and the odd bit of alcohol abuse at Romney HQ.
Anne Laurie linked to Ewick, Son of Ewick’s CPAC post, but didn’t quote my favorite bit.
Along the way a funny thing has happened. Romney supporters are starting to be openly critical of him. The business whiz has failed to restructure his own failing organization. His support is a mile wide and an inch deep.
And he has been replaced as front runner by the crowd. They are with Rick Santorum in heart, but also in money and votes. On the horizon looms a brokered convention.
Santorum is the new white. I expect the santorum slurping (which was already (if you will allow me to mix metaphors) bubbling away below the surface) will become unbearable, particularly now that everyone seems to want to talk about vaginas all the time. Every outlier poll which shows Santorum beating Romney or Obama will be touted throughout Wingnuttia.
Sadly, I suspect it will last about two weeks. Ricky will say something even more phenomenally stupid than his usual guff and everyone will finally get in line behind Mitt, the candidate that no one wanted.
I confess that Mitt scares me a little. He is just slick and rich and oily enough to fool the great unwashed into thinking him presidential.
Santorum, on the other hand (never a pleasant experience), is my dream candidate – a sanctimonious, unattractive and lumpish scold, with a face that cries out not only for a fist, but several carefully aimed feet.
See? Truly revolting.
You get his kind at every church. They proclaim their rectitude and their good works to any who will listen, but would snaffle the last cupcake from under the nose of an nun and proclaim it to be for her own good. They let the whole congregation see how much they put on the collection plate, but the muffins they bring to the bake sale are always store-bought and usually two days old. The only thing they value more than idle gossip is the feeling of superiority and outrage they get to enjoy after hearing it. They are, in everything, driven by a pinched anxiety that everyone they meet is either more moral or more sinful than them.
Rick Santorum once came to Shady Pines for morning tea. For a while I managed to avoid him by moving strategically from room to room. Eventually he almost cornered me, so I slipped out onto the garden terrace and hid in the janitor’s closet, only to find I was sharing it with the bishop, two nuns and a disturbingly sticky altar boy, who had also taken refuge in there. We were trapped for fifteen minutes, although happily fortified by the contents of my hipflask (although I did think the bishop offering some of my best scotch to little Billy Fortenberry was unwise).
Afterwards I had Marge Albrectson put one of her pet squirrels up Rick’s coat, so the last I saw of him he was running down the drive and screaming a high, ululating screech of terror, while a rabid ball of fluff tried to eat its way into his brain through his back.
I hope Santorum stays in the race. I hope that his prissy mug is all over that Convention stage ranting about bumsex and rape babies and privileges and inalienable goods.
He is everything I would wish upon the Republicans.