There is a 15-year-old pubescent with an emerging priapism astounded at the ferocious rounds of self-abuse the political press inflicts upon itself at the mere suggestion it is under-cooking its National Electathon coverage; that it might be treating the Actual Important Thing That It Is more like a quadrennial Cherrypop Stakes at Hollyoaks.
The Dark Fields, cluttered and stunted by shame and denial in so many other endeavors, finds itself entirely accepting of the “horse race” metaphor. There’s a reason these things take hold and it’s usually because they fit the situation so damn well.
Try looking at the story this way: The Republican primary field is a bunch of Barbaros, minus the courage and massive horse dongs (Perry excepted), trampling over one another for a chance to scarf oats from a golden chalice. Right? Simple.
And last night! The candidates, all teeth and stinking of stall-shit, lined up like swarthy thoroughbreds at their podiums — Gingrich of course bucking and requiring a swift paddle stroke up the ass before settling into his gate— and with the jockeys in place, OFF THEY WENT! Brilliant.
The Frontrunners looked at risk of being boxed in out of the gate, but clever trips from Brian Williams and John Harris, who would both ride the shit out of Perry and Romney all night, got them free and away from the mad, stumbling pack. Exactly!
“Pace makes the race,” they used to grumble between hefty drags from those Marlboro Reds at The Dark Fields’ OTB, and even a small-time mark could see that Ron Paul was never going to keep his. Older none the wiser, the shrill Texan just can’t help but hit the quarter-pole five lengths ahead of the nearest competition.
It was poor breeding that ruled out Santorum and Bachmann. They might not be directly related but they were definitely sharing more DNA than any other pair on the stage.
Weight will always hold back Gingrich, who, as ever, looked more Porcine than Equine.
Herman Cain is one of the two (more on the other in a moment) who defy horse-logic. His “Non-Non-Non” plan was intriguing, mind, but we’ll still take the Domino’s “Five-Five-Five” deal first. As for his other keynote concept, let us speak plainly: Herm Cain has a better chance of dating a Chilean Model than implementing one.
And then there’s Jon Huntsman.
While the others prepped with the standard naked jumping-jacks and mineral injections, this lunatic was humming along to Ben Folds and shooting off delirious tweets from his campaign bus.
There was some discussion earlier on in his campaign, if we can call it that (we can, actually, the question centers more on what exactly he’s campaigning for, and why), if Gov. Huntsman had any real interest in being president. Last night, he responded…
By swallowing three caps of magic mushrooms and damn near eating his tie on stage.
Line after line of delirious nonsense and an insanely raised right eyebrow were evidence enough this man wants no part of the White House and for God’s sake, just wants to Be Here Now and love on his beautiful bride.
Jon Huntsman, the one candidate who makes sense.
Winners: Anyone who writes a weekly column anywhere. Perry’s repeated assertion that Social Security is a Ponzi Scheme is a dream for everyone with a deadline and a blank screen/mind.
*This evening newsletter format is A COMPLETE CONCEPTUAL RIP-OFF of The (UK) Guardian’s Fiver column. We’ve just adjusted from soccer to politics and shaved off a few thousand IQ points. /DISCLAIMED for the last time