It might just be time for the boys and girls in the Republican party to stop throwing spitballs and hand grenades at each other and file quietly on to the back of the Cyborg Express.
Because that robot is rolling.
And I've got to say, he's getting good. His speech last night, (except for one weird, grating glitch that we'll get to below) was polished, persuasive and a pitch-perfect general election argument against the president. It was mostly authentic stump-speech gibberish, of course, but it had some power and the coordination between the words and the facial expressions was practically human. Why the technicians chose to broadcast the phrase "politics of envy", however, is a mystery.
Politics of envy? Questioning the practices of Bain Capital, and by implication other vulture, that is to say, venture capital firms is the result of envy?
Let me tell you, when you're walking down the street and you get jumped by a bunch of guys and they rough you up and walk away with all of your money, laughing, that burning feeling in your chest is not envy. Rage, sure. Helplessness and a sense that what just happened wasn't fair or right, yeah.
But you rarely envy someone for being colder or more ruthless than you.
So we waltz into the mud-wrestling pit that is South Carolina, everyone still in, everyone still swinging and shouting and posturing and pointing fingers. If anything is true this time around, it's that anything and I mean anything can happen. Hell, Huntsman is a possibility and that only happened yesterday afternoon.
And then there's the mystery of Ron Paul. What is he doing, actually doing out there? Just advancing his ideas? Building a genuine bid for a third party candidacy? He's crazy like a loon but smart enough to know that he can't ever win a Republican nomination. If anyone who's got his ear is reading this, I've got one suggestion: wardrobe. Everything he says and does is perfect, it's a compelling and nuanced performance, but the suit doesn't do anything, just makes him blend in with everyone else. I'd like to see him come out from here on out in an old ratty bathrobe and house slippers. Nothing else. And maybe let his hair go a little crazy, sticking up in back like he just woke up from a three hour nap on the sofa. And at the end of every speech, rather than shouting about liberty in that chicken-scratch yelp of his, have a large Dominican woman in a uniform take his arm firmly and say, "All right, now its time for your medication, Papi." and lead him away.
I just think that might pull the whole package together.
On to South Carolina, where Perry waits and the Gingrich ground team flexes its muscle.
Oh, and you want to go here and get your tickets.
I'm not letting up.