As I've noted, I'm generally quite keen on Senator Clinton as my senator, and I hope she stays my senator for a good long time, maybe another eight years.
Today, Ariel's soliloquy returns to her favorite subject, and then blames the objects of her derision for her fascination. It's umm, a little weird, even by her standards. (But thank christ she's not shooting for humor.)
Observe:
Our ubiquitous ex-president is playing his favorite uxorious game, and it goes like this: Let’s create chaos and then get out of it together. You ride to my rescue or I ride to yours. We come within an inch of dying and then recapture the day by the skin of our teeth. While we’re killing ourselves, we blame everyone else. We’ll be heroes.
..........
Just when I thought I was out, the Clintons pull me back into their conjugal psychodrama.
Yes, that's right. It's their fault that she's obsessing about their marriage. The Clintons are clearly the soap opera Mafia, who drag her, kicking and screaming from her thoughtful analysis of actuarial tables and the financial nightmare of the Big Shitpile to worry about how his ego affects her and vice versa. Because what she really wants to do is get Canadian-priced drugs for senior citizens. That Premarin's not free, you know.
And so, reluctantly, she straps on her hip-waders and cap guns and wanders into the fray. Well, someone has to do it.
Maybe the Boy Who Can’t Help Himself is simply engaging in his usual patterns of humiliating Hillary and lighting an exploding cigar when things are going well.
“They’re not Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, who had jealousy as the lifeblood of their marriage,” said one writer who has studied the pair. “The lifeblood of their marriage is crisis, coming to each other’s rescue.”
Bill is staying up late strategizing and recasting her message and speeches. But he’s off his game on the trail, making clumsy mistakes like his remark — bound to be shot down by Poppy Bush — that Hillary would send 41 and 42 around the world to restore prestige lost by 43.
Hillary advisers noted that when Bill was asked by a supporter in South Carolina what his wife’s No. 1 priority would be, he replied: C’est moi! “The first thing she intends to do is to send me ...” he began.
He got so agitated with Charlie Rose — ranting that reporters were “stenographers” for Obama — that his aides tried to stop the interview.
He also got in the way of her message with stretchers about opposing the Iraq war from the start, and — in a slap at Obama — deciding not to run in ’88 because he lacked experience. Truth is, he didn’t run for fear of bimbo eruptions.
It's so nice of her to take the bucket and dredge out the long-settled sludge at the bottom of the swamp for the rest of us, isn't it? So what's the juiciest piece of innuendo here? Oh, where to start? "The Boy Who Couldn't Help Himself"? "Scott and Zelda"? "C'est moi!"? "Bimbo eruptions"? Gah, it's like crab leg night at the Chinese buffet. Too much! And me without my extra-loose pants.
Thank jeebus we don't have any nasty policy to talk about and can go through all this shit instead! Forgive me, then, if I think the war, the economy, health care, the mortgage crisis, how to help the broken veterans, shit, even Mitt Romney's dog's shit, all take precedence over how many times The Clenis uses the word "I" in a speech.
One wonders whence the venom comes, but maybe it's just simpler than that. Maybe, for her, this is just all about the Glory Days when she could ruminate about semen stains and have it taken as Serious Political Journalism.
You can almost see the empty spot on her mantlepiece just waiting waiting for the another Pulitzer for Excellence in Clenis-Bashing. After all, when else have so many obsessed so profitably (for themselves) about so little (the the rest of us)? And MoDo was Queen of the Ball.
Can we keep it light, can you keep it clean, Maureen?
And Thers, *this* is powerpop, dood.
UPDATE: Guess who? : "Maureen Dowd sounds absolutely right to me. "
