VDH at the Corner, in a post which dovetails well with his recent PJM column:
I’m not the world’s greatest poker player, but I thought the point of bluffing was not to tell the other players that one was bluffing? “Don’t call my bluff” seems a plea for mercy, not a threat, as in, Don’t expose the fact that I have no cards to play.
Every week or so, we get a small glimpse into the strange world of Barack Obama — inflating tires instead of drilling, trading in all those 8-mpg cars, tuning up (points?) our cars, confusing Memorial Day with Veterans Day, a finished border fence, Cinco de Quatro, corpse-men, etc. — that could be the sort of understandable slips that result from a grueling 365-days-a-year speaking and campaigning schedule, except for the fact that between 2001 and 2008 we were told, one, that such declarations were windows into a clueless presidential mind and soul, and two, that Barack Obama was the cool sort of Ivy League lawyer who was going to bring competence, fluency, and intelligence back to the presidency, a sort of Lincoln in Brooks Brothers pinstripes.
Brooks Brothers? That’s way too plebeian to get your trousers noted by David Brooks.
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