Cheerful, Bespectacled Hockey Mom Drives Journalists Nuts
Guys,
Sometimes, I like to think of this McCain/Obama Presidential race as if it’s a prize fight, one that lasts for months.
It’s Sarah and John, the good guys, versus Obama and the mainstream media. Them, not so good.
As the hot weeks of summer go by, McCain fights on gamely, but he’s feeling the heat.
That’s because John’s on the receiving end of too many punches being thrown by the Obama gang and the mainstream media’s predictible, participational double team.
When John can’t handle the houses question, he’s knocked back on the ropes, but, luckily, just as the Obama commercials hammering away at his verbal misstep start running, the bell sounds ending the round.
It’s convention time.
I see Obama’s convention speech as a series of rights and lefts to McCain’s head and body. As the rounds go by, McCain grows weaker and weaker. Remarks announcer, Don Dunphy, McCain’s behind on points on every scorecard.
Ding.
The bell sounds for the final round.
As the Republican convention begins, storm clouds gather.
As the fighters touch gloves, a ray of sunshine peeks through the clouds.
Suddenly, I realize this isn’t just a prize fight. It’s a special boxing match.
Rocky III. The one with Mr. T.
I hear the blood thirsty mainstream crowd chanting Obama, Obama, Obama, see McCain taking viscous blows, lefts, rights in combination. McCain’s out on his feet when all of a sudden, just when Mr. T is ready to finish him off with a right uppercut to the jaw, from a crouched position, Rocky rocks Obama with a tremendous Palinian left to the gut. Then I see a slow motion Palinian right to the T man’s head causing sweat droplets to fly like little bb’s in all directions.
Then these words ring out from between the lips of Sarah Palin.
Some men”[Obama] use change to promote their career, while others use [McCain] their life’s career to promote change.”
Coming off his stool, the crowd sees a man who’s gotten a second wind.
McCain’s Dirty Harry eyes stalk its prey. Barack glances at his seconds outside the ring for help.
A woman sitting in the second row, wearing a blue pants suit shrieks out, “John, finish him off.”
The metaphor ends.
One final thought.
Guys,
Obama and his henchmen are just that; products of gutter, dirty Chicago politics.
All the stuff about hope and unity and change. That’s like paint on the set of an old western town, where the buildings are only facades with nothing inside. No substance. For cosmetic purposes only.
It’s how I see the entire Obama campaign. As transparent as thin air. As solid as whipped cream. As sordid as John Edwards hiding from National Inquirer reporters in a hotel bathroom.
But what’s got them in panic attack mode is what Jim Treacher so eloquently writes about in his article, “Cheerful, Bespectacled Hockey Mom Drives Journalists Nuts”.
The corrupt left wing media has always been the Democratic Party’s ace in the hole. But you can go to the well once to often.
Suddenly, on the wrong end of a double digit lead in the polls for the first time in this campaign, the Obama boys are on a first name basis with major league panic.
I can hear their underarm tension sweatfilled meetings as sure as if I have a front row seat.
The Alaskan queen has them frozen into inaction. With every passing strategy meeting, more and more heads are nervously, self consciously staring down at the table. More and more sentences are starting with, “Maybe if we.”
After the politics of personal destruction, what is Plan B?
And that’s the rub. There’s no Paul Revere in the room. No patriots in the building. The only people who could have ridden to their rescue were frozen out of their inner circle.
What inbreading can do to dogs it’s done to this impotent Obama inner circle. There are no Plan B,C,D and E people to offer help and guidance.
Surely, not the mainstream media gang who’r just message disseminators. Not creators. The mainstream media is great for wrapping up the attacks in a nice readable package and even tieing them with a pretty bow.
But everything that’s in the package now is blowing up in their Obama campaign faces. All form and no content only takes you so far.
If the Obama campaign team were a horse, I’d say they’ve thrown a shoe. If they were a plane, I’d say they’d lost an engine. If they were a hiker, I’d say they’d lost their way. If they were a meteor, I’d say it was falling to earth.
Actually, though, I say they’re something else.
Second rate Chicago politicians who decided to take a big gamble on an unknown commodity.
Boys who couldn’t resist trying their hand at a high stakes game of poker.
Having The Presidency and all its trappings for the taking had their corrupt tongues hanging out. But what about possible attacks about people like Bill Ayers and Tony Rezko? The Obama people thought that the conspiratorial silence of the mainstream media would make that negative noise just go away.
So as they sit at the high stakes poker table, they sneak another look at their promising hand that’s now not so promising after all.
The sweat all of a sudden gets colder. The throat dryer. The palms wetter. The heart rate faster.
Who’s going to break the news to Obama that they didn’t break Sarah Palin.
Not only is she a survivor, but she’s a pretty mean dealer of seven card stud.
They thought they were going to pull off the deal of the century.
Thought they were going to hold more money and power than they knew what to do with.
But it does’t look likely. Not when you’re looking down at your cards, and you realize the four aces you were hoping for aren’t there.
There’s a name for this hand. “Dirty” is one.
Another is, “Aces and eights”.
