It’s still what they tell me. And if this has occurred to me, it has sure as heck occurred to the Democratic-party bosses, and those who influence them.
Eleanor Clift, for example: “Al Gore on the second ballot: A scenario that a few weeks ago seemed preposterous is beginning to look plausible to some nervous Democrats looking for a way out of the deadlock between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama …” Hey, it never looked preposterous to
me, Eleanor … but then, I didn’t need to have several Hillary Clinton tattoos surgically removed before I could think straight.
“Plausible”? Try “inevitable.” It’s August in Denver. You have a convention hall full of party activists, nervous and weary from months of watching the party’s two candidates clawing and scratching at each other. Both those candidates are looking pretty tattered. Bill Clinton’s mistress has spilled the beans on O’Reilly, and Michelle Obama’s senior sociology thesis has come to light — the one where she let loose on the “ineradicable racism of white Americans” and called the U.S.A. “a nation founded in crime and hatred.” McCain is looking stronger than ever. The Turks are advancing on Kirkuk. Iran has lobbed a ballistic test missile far out over the Indian Ocean. The Chinese are mad as hell following the collapse of the summer Olympics the week before, as athletes refused to compete in gritty smog, and are making new threats against Taiwan. It’s a dangerous world out there, and community organizing and ed-biz wonkery are being marked down as presidential qualifications.
What to do? What to do? The party bosses are slumped in their seats, staring blankly into space, or doing job searches on their Blackberries. All is gloom and despondency.
Then … A fanfare of trumpets! A shaft of light! Into the hall rides a man on a white stallion! Stirred from their lethargy, the delegates begin rising from their seats. They start cheering and applauding. The rider reaches the podium, dismounts, and strides to the dais. The applause is deafening now. Cheers ring round the hall! Women are weeping; men are hugging each other.
Broad-shouldered and confident, his sternocleidomastoid muscle flexing and rippling, the Rescuer sweeps his powerful gaze around the hall. A hush falls. He begins to speak. As he speaks, the same though settles on every listener simultaneously:
This is the one. He has always been the one. What fools we have been! Don’t think it couldn’t happen. Don’t, in fact, think it isn’t going to happen. The Democratic party has two lame candidates, without a dime’s worth of executive experience between them. Competing on the campaign trail, by August each will have thoroughly alienated the other’s supporters, and turned off the voting public. Meanwhile, in the wings, there is this guy who was vice president for eight years, who ran a campaign for the presidency and
actually won it! (well, according to party lore). He
looks presidential, with a fine strapping physique and a big square jaw. You’re hankering after moral authority? How about
a Nobel Peace Prize, for crying out loud!!
But … does he want it? Does Al Gore want to be the president of the United States?
Are you kidding me?
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