I’m. Just. So. Excited. That. Hillary. Clinton. Is. Ready. To. Be. My. Champion.
I mean, she says she’s ready, what with “the deck… still stacked in favor of those at the top.”
Oh, ma’am, we “everyday Americans,” I can tell you, have had it up to here with the “top” people running everything. We’re ready for a president with a family net worth of only $13 million: somewhere in the Clinton range, we’re informed.
Something else we’re ready for is a president whose speech-giving fees, pre-campaign, were a modest $200,000: $10,000 a minute or thereabouts; no more than your Aunt Bessie would spend on a new Lamborghini Gallardo.
Excited? That doesn’t begin to express how us everyday folks — scuse my stomach growling, Miz Clinton, we gave up breakfast so we could pay our Obamacare premiums — what I was trying to say back there was that us everyday people appreciate how you got a deep feeling for us. And for our votes.
And… and… what more is there to say about the Clinton campaign? Not a lot, when it comes to substance. Twenty-three years into the Clinton Era, whose opening was marked by Bill’s first election to the White House, we know no more than, in substantive terms, we ever knew about this remarkable and persistent couple.
The main thing we know is, they won’t get off the stage. They can’t. They wouldn’t know where to go or what to do, once off.
Their mission — because they always present it as such — is to devise missions whose performance keeps the curtain from closing on them.
It is a sad thing to say in the context of the family’s latest bid for longevity, but Mrs. Clinton is old news.
We think the Bushes have been around too long? What about — to keep the spotlight on its present object — Mrs. Clinton? What is her reason for non-retirement? Is it to guide our nation through a unique moment that this unique figure understands uniquely? If such is the case, none of the uniqueness shines through the darkness. As secretary of state, Mrs. Clinton logged a lot of airline miles. As, previously, senator from New York, she left no stamp on public affairs. She came; she served; she moved on.
Speaking of “moving on,” it’s the Clinton formula for dismissing complaints about questionable activities and performances, such as her mysterious profits in Whitewater investments, such as imputed negligence in guarding the safety of our ambassadorial staff in Benghazi, Libya. It all got in the news. It got talked about — isn’t that enough? She bids us move on. The Clinton motif is always “forward.” Forward toward what? To more of the Clintons’ exquisite company — what more could be desired?
I was feeling morose about the likelihood of the Clintons’ championing us, world without end, Amen. Then I caught the Masters final. Along came some real excitement — not just the usual blather about Tiger or even about the easily more enjoyable Phil Mickelson.
No, the excitement concerned Jordan Spieth, who at age 21 exhibited a polish and skill and steadiness and determination we’d not previously had occasion to admire. Oh, was it fun to admire! Fun, real fun: something genuinely new — no ordinary nag here. Think, rather, of Secretariat in the Belmont: 30 lengths in front: sleek, unstoppable.
And with it all, nice and amiable. At one point, I caught from Spieth’s direction a mic’d “Gosh,” rather than the “%#!$” occasionally associated with the vanishing champion whose bogey putts the Masters commentators insisted on noting for our edification.
And I thought: Gosh. Wow. Something is altogether new here. Something that captures the imagination, leaving the past — the good, the bad, all of it — in the dust.
Have the Republicans a Spieth? Hard to say at this point. Rubio? Walker? Someone else? We can’t tell yet. We know the Democrats lack one. What they have is — sigh! — Hillary. Here she comes, down the fairway, the usual gleam in her eye. I take pleasure in noting on behalf of everyday folk everywhere that our political golf game is still on the front nine.
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