Easy to say it’s all show business. But it’s worse than that. Nowadays, it’s the politicians who are paid actors with remarkably little script approval. After all, their jets are waiting. It’s the media who are desperate hangers-on, hoping for an invitation to the correspondents dinner.
Nothing that transpires in national politics is real. Everybody false, everybody a polished performer. Turn on the cameras, make it happen, dude, and tell the women and horses to stay out of the way. If you don’t know who I am, you better learn quick.
Except that it’s all horsecrap. None of these guys knows anything. Everytime John Kerry speaks as Secretary of State I want to throw up. That bad. The Cabinet, agency heads, and other federal bosses are a row of idiots. A complete gallery of malicious morons. I don’t even know if Obama thinks he can play chess, and I know only the moves of the pieces, but I can still kick his ass. Contrary to seven years of effusive PR, I can state with confidence he’s not all that smart. There’s no intellect or learning of any kind in the O realm.
Governing in this administration is only about whose ass you should be kissing. Nobody knows anything, nobody reads anything, nobody ever thinks about anything. Nobody is ever accountable for anything.
But the pundits and the new media keep pretending that John Kerry knows how to change a tire. He doesn’t. His wife doesn’t care. She has a filipino houseboy to do that for her. Why rich people are so happy. Why incredibly stupid rich people do incredibly stupid things in public. Like being Secretary of State when you have no idea what just happened in the world, why, or how it could possibly be your responsibility. All of this on the off chance some chick might sleep with you before your cock falls off. Which the reporters from NYT and WAPO have been just dying to do. There’s nothing they find sexier than an old, wooden, botox-deadened face in a corpse-like body which is almost certain to give women as much pleasure as a splintered oak firelog. Not to mention a firelog’s exquisite powers of conversation. From France, of course. Sad, pitiful, stupid old man. Even sadder, some of them will offer a nest to his ancient dwindling twig.
After they do, of course, he will simply add another mark to the competitive wall he set up with Teddy Kennedy. For real men, such competitions don’t end because a rival kicks the bucket. They end when you have nailed everyone on the political reporting staff of the major newspapers and the major news networks.
Was it good for you sweetheart?
It was great for me. We call it acting. The only thing we fucking do. Can you get me a latte?