Now that Hillary’s down on the canvas, blood gouting from her nose, looking up at B. Hussein Obama Jr., and trying to clear the tweety birds out of her brain, I’m breathing a little easier now.

There’s nothing quite as satisfying as seeing your guy Barry looming triumphantly over a fallen opponent, like Muhammad Ali glowering over Sonny Liston, while his lovely wife, Michelle, polishes the jumbo-sized chips on her shoulders masquerading as epaulets. Surely now it’s time for Ms. Beer-and-a-shot to know when she’s beat and throw in the towel. Hang ‘em up. Pack it in.

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And yet, despite her drubbing in North Carolina and her slim, possibly Rush-induced margin of victory in Indiana, Mrs. Clinton immediately declared that, far from dropping out, she was in it all the way. In it to win it, come hell or high water or some really amazing piece of oppo-research that she’s been holding in abeyance as an insurance policy, something that will make Pastor Wright and Mad Bomber Ayers and Tony Rezko seem like the biddies at my aunt Hilda’s weekly Mahjongg game in Eagle Rock.

It doesn’t matter that our noble party — which admittedly once supported slavery, institutionalized segregation, abandoned religion for secularism and is now practically frank in its advocacy of sedition — is now taking the high moral ground and begging her to Bring Us Together for the Good of the Party by Getting the Hell Out and the Horse You Rode In On, Too. Her answer: Nyet, baby.

Which puzzled me for a moment. Can’t she see that she’s beat? Has she forgotten that, for Democrats, once our pet-poodle punditocracy says it’s over, it’s bloody well over? Who are we to question the mighty Russert?

But then I thought — Hey, wait a minute! This movie (or “lifie,” to use Neal Gabler’s infelicitous phrase, which somehow never caught on) isn’t Rocky or any of its sequels. The scene from Tuesday night, with the white guy on the floor and the black guy looming over him, isn’t really a boxing movie at all. Oh my God! It’s —

An Officer and a Gentleman. You remember, the 1982 Richard Gere-Louis Gossett Jr. flick in which Gere plays a smart-ass punk who wants to be a Navy flyboy, and Gossett is the Marine gunny sergeant who stands in his way. Gets in his face. And puts him down, hard, early, and often. For his own good, of course.


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