In what can only be described as an extract from the annals of extreme chutzpah, the Clintons--yes, the Clintons!--are now weighing in, via surrogates, to force Anthony Weiner from the race for mayor of New York. Apparently, the Clintons believe that an embarrassing dick pic--along with lying in his apology--should be enough to force the horny narcissist from the race.
My jaw is hovering near the floor-boards.
Mine's not, although my heart's there.
Look, I know her presidential nomination and subsequent election are virtually certain, and that I should accept what I cannot change. But good grief, I'm just not sure I can bear another two years of the old Clinton scandals--whether real or imagined--rehashed by the GOP bile machine on the campaign trail, followed by four to eight more years of Clinton scandals, whether real or imagined, new or old, truly scandalous or not.
We all have our snapping point, and with Hillary and Bill I reached mine back in 2007. First came their insufferable airs of inevitability, even though Hillary had hawkishly lost the nomination four years earlier when she voted for that damned idiotic Iraq war. Then, after Iowa 2008 and Barack Obama's actual inevitability, came the fully steaming and equally insufferable Clinton attack machine, in any and every attack mode.
Sure, it was just politics, and enemies are often tomorrow's friends, as the Clintons indeed proved to nominee and president Obama. So it's not a grudge I hold. It's more of a sick, withered feeling: I just can't take up to another 10 years of the Clintons' scandal magnetism. Perhaps I'll write about literature, or art, or chess or something--something, anything at which I am far less acute than politics, because even in that, I have my snapping point.