I can’t help myself. I had to go and see, and apparently they’re having a circle jerk of misery over at the Corner.
I have found that tears make such ineffective lubricant. Too chafing.
However, they all appear to agree that the wingnut pundits from the non-Corner parts of National Review Online, who are claiming that Roberts’ decision was in fact a good thing for Republicans because tax Trojan horse mumblecakes, are talking out their collective arses, which is never a good thing in a circle jerk situation.
I admit that I giggled a bit when I read Daniel Foster’s comment that:
On the substance, I’m with VDH, Ramesh, Rich, et al.
because, frankly, that sounds like a situation in which you should see your doctor before pus starts coming out, but I thought Michael Walsh’s post was rather good, if one ignored the wah wah defeat to liberty beginning, the “liberals are po-mo fraidycats” bit and the trite baseball metaphor.
Re: yesterday’s Supreme calamity, put me down in the Victor, Andy, and Jonah camp. There’s no way to rouge this porker of a decision from the chief justice as anything other than a stinging defeat for the forces of personal liberty. When you have to tell your troops that they “really” won, even as they flee the battlefield, you’re out of your mind.
As Professor Hanson notes, “rationalizing defeats is no way to learn from them.” Besides, counter-factual rationalization is the Left’s game; post-modern to a fault, they exist in an imaginary universe of dark shadows and dog whistles. So what if Roberts drop-kicked the Commerce Clause? The same end was accomplished by grabbing the taxing power instead, then helpfully rewriting the law and the administration’s own testimony to “correct” what Congress meant to say.
True, Romney had a big fund-raising day yesterday, but so what? I don’t buy the notion that Obamacare will now be the issue heading into the election; for the vast majority of Americans, that got settled yesterday, and it will be child’s play for the Left to paint conservatives as whiny sore losers and crude revanchists. Romney will again be forced to explain exactly why Romneycare was right for Massachusetts but Obamacare is wrong for America — and appeals to the Tenth Amendment just aren’t going to cut it.
We’ll probably never know why Roberts — with the country begging for clarity and resolution — walked right up to the line and then backed away. For conservatives, yesterday’s defeat is like the Red Sox in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series: one strike away . . . and then the ball rolls through Buckner’s legs.
Rouge this porker. Hee.
Rich Lowry sticks an umpire, a tsunami, a zombie, a sweaty jockstrap and quite possibly a snake, a dog and a rooster into a stout leather bag, gives it a few whacks with a stick and throws it into the Tiber.
Chief Justice John Roberts famously defined himself as an umpire in his confirmation hearings. But an umpire is willing to make the toughest calls.
In his Obamacare decision, Roberts the umpire blinked. By issuing a decision that forestalled the tsunami of criticism that would have come his way had he struck down the law (as an activist, a partisan, and an altogether rotten human being), Roberts effectively rewrote the constitutionally problematic portions of it. He overstepped his bounds. The umpire called a balk, but gave the pitcher a do-over. The ref called a foul, but didn’t interrupt the play.
As a result, there’s Obamacare as passed by Congress. Then there’s Obamacare as passed by the Supreme Court.
Sadly I can’t tell you what Jonah Goldberg thinks because in line two of his article he started talking about haruspices and I had to stop reading before I broke my iPad.
Finally, Victor Davis Hanson, who I have always liked in a creepy-nephew-who-is-probably-a-serial-killer-but-gets-you-good-coke kind of way, hits several nails squarely on the head:
Meanwhile, after a “disastrous” May and June, Obama is edging up again in the polls. For all the reports of his fundraising problems or his existential election crises, he seems to have many millions in key swing states to run class-warfare hits against Romney. The serial “Swiss bank accounts” and “shipping jobs overseas” don’t seem to be countered, and so are having some effect. If Obama is where he is after a disastrous 60 days, where will he be after a so-so next two months? … All of the above should mobilize conservatives in 2012 as never before and open their eyes to the resources and zealotry pledged against them: November is really a sort of last-ditch effort in a way prior elections were not.
[Image: Tullia Drives over the Corpse of her Father, by Jean Bardin.]
Warning: Adult (and extremely immature) Content.
I’m somewhere in the mountains in the west of Portugal at a health spa. There are extended families everywhere looking virtuous after their appointment with the hotel nutritionist and a cleansing dip in the healing waters.
I am celebrating by sneaking outside for a smoke and drinking as much red wine as I can.
Given my drunken state, I don’t remember who to blame for referring me to the torrent of pompous guff that is Bill Fucking Kristol’s most recent article in the Weekly Standard.
To the Republicans of the states of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida:
I imagine Bill, as he types with one hand, slowly drawing aside his robe to reveal his wrinkled old todger. It stirs vaguely as he spits on his other hand and gives it a quick buff.
At this moment of great peril for our nation, you have the privilege of beginning the process of selecting the 2012 Republican presidential nominee—the individual who will save us from the ghastly prospect of an Obama second term, and who will then have the task of beginning to put right our listing ship of state, setting our nation on a course to restored solvency, reinvigorated liberty, and renewed greatness.
His excitement is rising now at the thought of the usurper being thrown out, of that glorious day when he can again call a spade a spade. He is half hard, with perhaps a first glistening drop of precome to moisten things up.
Your responsibility is great. Your votes will affect which candidates survive January’s electoral gauntlet, their likelihood of ultimately prevailing, and even whether others will feel impelled to enter the race. You, the voters of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida, will shape the range of choices for your fellow citizens elsewhere in the nation in this crucial year.
How should you decide for whom to vote?
Now his mind turns to the candidates and his hand begins to quiver up and down those few inches. He thinks of Michele Bachmann and her crazy-sexy eyes; of that delicious hunk of manhood that is Rick Santorum, and of his oh-so-perfect helmet hair; of Gnoot’s quivering jowls and Rick Perry’s firm and masculine chest; even (perhaps for a moment) of sweaty forbidden gnome-sex with Ron Paul.
Vote for the person you think would be the best president of the United States. Ignore the proclamations of the pundits, the sophistries of the strategists, and the calculations of the handicappers. Ignore the ads, the robocalls, and the polls. Be skeptical of those who would seek, whether from national stage or local perch, cavalierly or presumptively to instruct you how to mark your ballot. That ballot is yours alone to cast.
Here the people rule. So you, the Republicans of Iowa, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Florida, can step back, consider the individual candidates in the totality of their public lives, study their records and platforms, judge their abilities and views, imagine each of them in the Oval Office making major decisions for the nation . . . and choose the individual who you think should be our next president.
His hand is a blur. His eyes are glazed. The keyboard is a little sticky. The moment is near – the moment to drop in mention of the Federalist Papers – and then surely he will have the sweet release he craves.
As Hamilton puts it in Federalist #1:
The subject speaks its own importance; comprehending in its consequences nothing less than . . . the safety and welfare of the [Union], the fate of an empire in many respects the most interesting in the world. It has been frequently remarked that it seems to have been reserved to the people of this country, by their conduct and example, to decide the important question, whether societies of men are really capable or not of establishing good government from reflection and choice, or whether they are forever destined to depend for their political constitutions on accident and force. If there be any truth in the remark, the crisis at which we are arrived may with propriety be regarded as the era in which that decision is to be made; and a wrong election of the part we shall act may, in this view, deserve to be considered as the general misfortune of mankind.
And his heart is going like mad and yes he says yes I will Yes.
The crisis of 2012 isn’t the crisis of 1787. But it is still a crisis. It is not a moment to be swayed by capricious accident or compelled by political force to a wrong election of the part we shall act. It is a moment for reflection and choice.
A moment of doubt. Little Bill wilts slightly, and Bill fwaps harder to try to keep the buzz. He calls up image after image in his mind, but now the doubt has taken hold and all he can see is Rick Perry saying “oops”, Herman Cain suspending his campaign, Ron Paul denouncing Israel, Gnoot saying anything at all, and Romney, always Romney.
And it is a moment, as you prepare to cast your vote, for others to reflect on whether they don’t owe it to their country to step forward. As this is no time for voters to choose fecklessly, it is no time for leaders to duck responsibility. Those who have stood aside—and who now may have concluded, as they may not have when they announced their original decision, that the current field is lacking—will surely hear the words of Thomas Paine echoing down the centuries: “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.” Now is not a time for leaders to engage in clever calculations of the odds of success, or to succumb to concerns about how they will look if they enter the fray and fall short.
Oh god. Oh god. Not even Thomas Paine can save his hard-on now. Sadness washes over him. His tackle has shrunk down to a limp noodle which he clutches between his fingers. He milks it desperately, but the joy has gone. Will no one bring the light of hope back to Bill’s eyes, the flush of blood to Bill’s loins?
Now is a time to come to the aid of our country.
No. No one will come, least of all little Billy Kristol, as we leave him, curled on the carpet, clawing at his groin, with not even a little spurt of semen to soothe the dry, dry and futile friction, or to fill the yawning crevasse of despair that has opened up inside.