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.
The desperate hunt for the Not-Romney continues.
There is a wonderful graphic at the National Post, which shows decided Republican voters candidate preference over the last eight months (sourced from here), and which I shall link to, rather than showing, lest armed men batter down Cole’s door in search of evidence for multiple copyright fraud charges and be eaten by Tunch.
It looks a little like Elvis’ colon on burgers-and-blowjob night. In turn, Bachmann, Perry, Cain and Gingrich’s columns distend horrifically as they become the next Great Republican Hope, stuffed full of Republican dreams, and are, in turn, discarded. Even little Ricky (and we know what he’s stuffed with) gets a go.
The Republican Party (as unfortunate a band of Bigots, Bums, Bankers, Bastards and Baby-obsessives as you could ever hope to avoid meeting) has spent the last 8 months roaming the hills, forks and hope at the ready, reading from a blank map and trying to sniff out the Snark.
They know that, in addition to being handy for striking a light, the mystical Snark will remove black stains and bring back the Baby Jesus.
Unfortunately, they don’t know what it looks like, so every time there’s a rustle in the bushes, half of them crap themselves, while the other half immediately proclaim the finding of the Snark.
Of course, all they’ve managed to find so far is a bandersnatch, a dodo, a badly soiled jub jub bird and, most recently, a rather unpleasant Newt that keeps rubbing up against people and shitting on the carpet.
Some of them still appear to think that Newt is the real thing.
However, others have spotted movement under a Santorum tree, and have set out again to hunt, fluffing Ricky the whole way. What a rogues’ gallery they are.
It would also of course help Santorum’s chances to replace Gingrich down the road as the alternative to Romney—an outcome that, I suspect, might well result in a better race for the nomination and a healthier situation for the ultimate Republican nominee.
In the general election, I want to beat Barack Obama and send him into a prosperous retirement with his family. In the primary, I want a party leader who demonstrates the kind of integrity and consistency that only Santorum has shown. He worked hard for my vote, and I only wish I could be in the state to cast it on Tuesday.
Santorum is an eloquent spokesperson for the culture of life. He has been savaged and ridiculed by leftist elites for upholding traditional family values — not just in word, but in deed.
And once the not-Romney alternatives were winnowed to Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich, I think it became clear which of the two men stood a better chance of competing with Romney in states like Ohio, Illinois and Pennsylvania.
Some guy at National Review:
When the “internals” are analyzed, Santorum rates particularly high on personal character, on sincerity, and on steadfastness of principle. Those are bedrock traits that, over a long campaign, help secure a voter’s comfort level with a candidate. A comparison with Reagan is in order here. While Santorum certainly hasn’t shown Reagan’s preternatural communication skills or sheer — almost magical — personal likeability, what matters in a race against a weak incumbent in a weak economy is that voters give themselves the psychological go-ahead for changing something as important as the president. Fear of the unknown runs strong. Even against an absurdly weak Jimmy Carter in 1980, it was only in the last week that voters swung sharply Reagan’s way: They needed reassurance, from watching his demeanor in debates, that he wasn’t the nuclear cowboy the Left tried to portray. Santorum’s palpable decency and sincerity can offer a similar reassurance against Obama. Someone as volatile as Gingrich cannot.
Jesus. I bet it took him a week to get the taste of Rick’s arse out of his mouth after that tongue bath.
Every morning I pray (to several gods of my acquaintance) for the same thing as Bill Kristol and Michelle Malkin.
“Give us Santorum, Lord,” I pray. “Let us be awash in it.”
I hope they find their Snark.
“But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away, And never be met with again!”
I’m trying to understand.
I managed to put my back out somewhere in Portugal, then picked up a dread lurgy in Amsterdam, and have therefore spent the last week making my way home to Shady Pines, swathed in a haze of Tiger Balm, vaIium, codeine and champagne, while alternately lying on the floor of hotels and groaning, lying on aeroplane seats and groaning, or sitting on toilets and groaning while squirting from every orifice. It was like a Katharine Hepburn movie, except one where Katharine knees Tracy in the balls in the first five minutes and is handcuffed to her seat for the rest of the film. My fond regards to the staff of KLM and Singapore Airlines for their sterling service and their heavy hands with the gin.
Having arrived home, I have been appropriately cleaned and medicated, and now the world is like a big, warm ball of pink marshmallow with me in the middle like a particularly unpleasant (although exquisitely perfumed) jammy filling.
I know there are important events going on outside. I’m reading my blogs and trying to take it all in but, with the bucketsful of painkillers I am on, my brain has self-deported.
As far as I can tell, lots of people are complaining because the President made a speech in which he talked about creating jobs and improving education and the unremarkable (yet rarely spoken of) idea that the rich should pay at least the same rate of tax as the non-rich, while sounding like a calm, responsible adult.
This after a week which the chosen exemplars of Republicaniness (a morally-compromised blowhard, a rich herbert with the likeability of a sanitary napkin full of blue ink, an insane gnome and an obnoxious wowser whose name is inextricably linked to lubey, shitty suds) spent flinging poo at each other, fellating the rich and otherwise saying dumb shit, while arguing about how little tax they all pay.
President Obama clearly has no idea what he is doing.
Also, Nancy Pelosi. No idea. Why on earth would she say of Newt that:
I think he’s done plenty of dumb things and there’s stiff competition for what is the dumbest thing he’s done, of course, including his violations of the ethics rules of the House of Representatives.
when she knows that it will make the 27 percent squeal at her for the next week like piggies in a sack about how unfair it is for Nancy to mention stuff for which God has personally forgiven Newt?
I tried reading Mitch Daniels’ reply but as far as I can tell he just went “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Why won’t you do what we want you to?” for ten minutes, crapped his pants and fell off his chair.
None of it is making sense.
Perhaps I need another drink….
Gnoot has a post up about his proposal to prepare kids from poor families for the low paying, menial jobs they will often be forced to take after leaving school by giving them low paying, menial jobs while they are at school.
Wouldn’t it be great if New York City schools served their students as well as they serve some of their custodians?
Students–especially those from very poor families–would be better served if they had the opportunity to earn money part-time at school by doing some of the tasks custodians are now performing so expensively.
Dozens of poor students could have part-time, paying jobs for the $100,000 a year New York schools pay some custodians. For that amount, more than 30 children could work just two hours each school day and each take home $3,000 a year by the time they are 12 or 13 years old.
Some of this work could be clerical; other tasks could be janitorial, such as cleaning the cafeteria, or emptying the trash, or vacuuming the classrooms. These are similar to the chores many parents require their kids to do at home, and it would allow 12- and 13- year olds to make money they desperately need. Giving children the opportunity to earn money would help teach work habits, and letting them do so in their schools would build a stronger commitment to that community.
Here’s the thing, Gnoot, you crap-filled, sociopathic blowhard.
I may be a fictional, sweary old lady who knows two fifths of fuck-all about poverty and the challenges facing inner city kids, or about how we could improve their financial position while increasing their self esteem and encouraging them to learn.
However, I’d be willing to bet quite a lot of money that the answer is not making them stay back after school to clean up other students’ shit for six bucks an hour.
Warning: All links are to Kathryn-Jean’s Bedsit of Solitude.
Maggie Gallagher thinks Ron Paul is an evil supporter of gay incest, but she would quite like to be the fourth Mrs Gingrich when Callista gets cancer or wrinkles or otherwise wears out her welcome.
Rudolph Giuliani quite likes Newt, because Newt has consistently acted like a suppurating arsehole, just like Rudy and the sainted Ronnie.
Christopher Hitchens is going to be royally pissed off when he gets to heaven and finds out just how wrong he was.
The Iowa debate was a sexy conserva-love-in where all the candidates did a naked liturgical dance and rubbed up against each other while shouting “Obama is the suxxors”.
Bono may be an enormous tosser, but conservatives who write about U2 wank so hard they take off several layers of skin:
Still, I submit that the songs of U2 betray a state of mind, a type of character, a way of looking at the civil social order that is undeniably conservative.
Santorum and Bachmann would be winning if only people didn’t have to listen to them or see them:
If we were to read transcripts of the debate and not watch or listen to TV, both would be at or near the top.
Somewhere in Massachusetts, a cold shiver just ran up Tom Levenson’s back, for Megan McArdle has published her “Holiday Gift Guide 2011: Kitchen Edition“.
Now, I love cooking (my old English Fruit cake with propofol icing has won several awards) and I love gadgets (particularly the sort that are made by Germans out of latex and make the lights dim in three states when I turn them on), but McMegan’s list is truly terrifying.
Megan says that “Space is somewhat limited in our kitchen“, and given that she appears to own every piece of crap that has ever been flogged to the gullible and the taste-free, I’m not surprised. I have visions of her dessicated corpse being found some day, trapped between the piles of old copies of the New York Times that line the walls of her apartment, smothered beneath an avalanche of chicken-shaped spoon holders and fish spatulas, all liberally lubricated with rancid butter (salted and salt-free!) that has spilled out from her (now water-depleted) butter boats.
It’s hard to pick favourites from her list, but I’m particularly enamoured of the Salt Pig, which may be the ugliest piece of kitchenware I have ever seen:
At least it matches the colour of her salt.
Helpfully, Megan suggests several solutions to those global problems which bedevil us all, including the Kuhn Rikon Egg Separating Set because:
Separating eggs by hand is not hard, but it’s tedious…
and the Swivel Store Spice Rack because:
Like most people who like to cook, I am obsessed with finding a solution to The Spice Problem.
Thankfully, this last apparently flouts the laws of physics by holding all her spices:
happily (and neatly) over the microwave, where they’re paradoxically easy to get at, and safely out of the way.
If only Zeno had known about that he wouldn’t have had to do all that messing around with tortoises and arrows.
Megan even recommends not only a gravy separator, but also a warming gravy boat. Starving children in Eritrea can rest easy now, knowing that Megan’s guests will never be exposed to cold, fatty sauces.
She (of course) triples down on the fucking Thermomix, in its third mention in as many weeks. I’m pretty sure she’s angling for a freebie, so she can wedge herself between two of them and have them rhythmically whirl, whirl, whirl her towards orgasm.
The thing that stands out most of all for me, however, is this:
I’ll frequently make a pot of rice at night and melt some cheese on top, eat some for dinner, and the rest for breakfast.
Despite all Megan’s crapping on about her fantasy world of “shiny chocolate glazes” and custards and foams and perfect bechamel, buried in the middle of the article we get one solitary glimpse of the truth – sad, pathetic Megan, surrounded by her shelves and drawers and hills of tat and rubbish, shovelling cheese and rice into her face in a futile attempt to fill the aching void in her soul.
I tried to write a proper analysis of Peggy Noonan’s latest emission. I labored through her evocation of a red and white and purple-prosed America that I suspect only ever existed in Peggy’s wildest gin-dreams:
…The things that divide us are not new, yet there’s a sense now that the glue that held us together for more than two centuries has thinned and cracked with age. That it was allowed to thin and crack, that the modern era wore it out.
What was the glue? A love of country based on a shared knowledge of how and why it began; a broad feeling among our citizens that there was something providential in our beginnings; a gratitude that left us with a sense that we should comport ourselves in a way unlike the other nations of the world, that more was expected of us, and not unjustly—”To whom much is given much is expected”; a general understanding that we were something new in history, a nation founded on ideals and aspirations—liberty, equality—and not mere grunting tribal wants. We were from Europe but would not be European: No formal class structure here, no limits, from the time you touched ground all roads would lead forward. You would be treated not as your father was but as you deserved.
I chuckled at the bit where she called Obama a negative, self-obsessed, divisive hater of the rich:
Where is the president in all this? He doesn’t seem to be as worried about his country’s continuance as his own. He’s out campaigning and talking of our problems, but he seems oddly oblivious to or detached from America’s deeper fears. And so he feels free to exploit divisions. It’s all the rich versus the rest, and there are a lot more of the latter.
then was entirely discombobulated when Peggy
became seemed briefly coherent*:
Specifically it is the story of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, the mortgage insurers, and how their politically connected CEOs, especially Fannie’s Franklin Raines and James Johnson, took actions that tanked the American economy and walked away rich. It began in the early 1990s, in the Clinton administration, and continued under the Bush administration, with the help of an entrenched Congress that wanted only two things: to receive campaign contributions and to be re-elected.
The story is a scandal, and the book should be the bible of Occupy Wall Street. But they seem as incapable of seeing government as part of the problem as Republicans seem of seeing business as part of the problem.
but then realized it was all an excuse to insert her tongue slowly into Paul Ryan, and then gently pull it out and wiggle it around a bit, tickling the little hairs with the tip the way he likes:
Which gets us to Rep. Paul Ryan. Mr. Ryan receives much praise, but I don’t think his role in the current moment has been fully recognized. He is doing something unique in national politics. He thinks. He studies. He reads. Then he comes forward to speak, calmly and at some length, about what he believes to be true. He defines a problem and offers solutions, often providing the intellectual and philosophical rationale behind them. Conservatives naturally like him—they agree with him—but liberals and journalists inclined to disagree with him take him seriously and treat him with respect.
My brain didn’t really start to hurt until the end, where I discovered that Paul Ryan thinks the rich and politicians are evil too:
“Why have we extended an endless supply of taxpayer credit to Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, instead of demanding that their government guarantee be wound down and their taxpayer subsidies ended?” Why are tax dollars being wasted on bankrupt, politically connected solar energy firms like Solyndra? “Why is Washington wasting your money on entrenched agribusiness?”
Rather than raise taxes on individuals, we should “lower the amount of government spending the wealthy now receive.” The “true sources of inequity in this country,” he continued, are “corporate welfare that enriches the powerful, and empty promises that betray the powerless.” The real class warfare that threatens us is “a class of bureaucrats and connected crony capitalists trying to rise above the rest of us, call the shots, rig the rules, and preserve their place atop society.”
although apparently it’s not negative, divisive or rich-hatey when he says it.
I tried to read the whole thing again, and pick it apart in detail for your delectation. And frankly, I just gave up. I’m neither sober enough, nor drunk enough, to care.
So, in lieu of that, I bring you my new favorite biscuits (cookies, for those of you not of Blighty born):
Who doesn’t like a nice fruity cock or two with their morning tea?
* ETA: Yes, I know that Peggy is only coherent here for a particular value of coherent, namely “not very”. As commenter geg6 noted at Balloon Juice: “To blame everything on Freddie and Fannie, as she does in the paragraph you highlight, is not coherent. It is the babbling of every Teabagging, conspiracy nut, Grover Norquist knob gobbling asshole on the right.” At least Peggy got all the words in the right order. That must count for something.