The Stamp of Upheaval

Like a blind squirrel tripping over a discarded acorn, the pundits may have accidentally stumbled onto a similar nugget of truth in their speculation that Hillary is making Barack a better candidate. Or maybe he’s just a quick learner. Either way, Mr. Obama seems to have gotten real good real quick.

This week, in less than twelve hours, he managed to turn a debilitating loss into a triumphal moment of celebration complete with two males holding hands in a non- California or Massachusetts way. From goat to hero in less than a single revolution of Mickey’s little hand. That’s way beyond Clinton- good. We’re verging on Reagan- good here.

Mr. Elitist has become Mr. Smoothiest. He’s as polished as a casaba melon wrapped in a velour golf towel dipped in baby powder. More fluid than the lines on a Lamborghini carved out of Italian cream cheese resting under heat lamps. Less friction than a bead of sweat between two bodies in high heat at full rut.

And if he’s not real careful, they’re going to start printing up t- shits with a picture of him over the caption: Slick Barry.

To say that Hillary Clinton beat him in West Virginia is like implying Post- It Notes don’t library well in blast furnaces. Or, to use the Appalachian vernacular, he was beaten like a red headed step child. What I’m saying here is: He lost. Real bad. By more than 40 points. Numbers more befitting an also ran than the ostensible front- runner. Not quite the infallible image a candidate being carried on a litter through teeming crowds on his way to a coronation is anxious to project.

But then, the very day after he got himself royally trounced by that recently transformed friend of the working man, Mr. Obama pulled from out of his hat, not just one, but two major league liberal endorsements. The first rabbit to sneak down his sleeve was that coquettish Democratic Party debutante, Senator John Edwards; who pretending to take almost as long to make up his mind about whom to endorse than he normally spends on his hair.

The timing was the ball peen hammer to the forehead. You might even call it premeditated murder. A classic case of stashing a Heineken in the crisper bin of the frig at a party in a house that isn’t yours.

Mr Obama also received the blessing of the national abortion rights action league, NARAL. And the endorsements have hit Hillary Clinton like two sucker punches to the gut with gloves mounted on pneumatic pistons, especially the latter. Butting heads while competing for the same third generation factory worker constituency is one thing. Stealing the feminist vote from the feminist is another.

Mr. Edwards can be forgiven for jumping on a winning bandwagon, after spending so much time buried in the John Kerry submersible, but Hillary has been a NARAL supporter since day one, so if I were one of the directors of that particular organization, I would get down on my knees and pray to whatever Supreme Being I believed in that I was never subpoenaed to appear before one of Senator Clinton’s subcommittees.

Pray and invest in a varied yet tasteful wardrobe of Kevlar pantsuits. Because hell hath no fury like a woman getting her butt kicked in a primary fight she expected to win.

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