Think you’re done with politics for now? Well, politics isn’t done with you. Welcome to the 2020 presidential race.
Since we have a good idea who the GOP nominee is going to be, let’s focus on the emerging Democratic field of slow learners, mouth-breathers, and pond scum who will vie against each other and more so against the diabolical pantsuited hobgoblin who won’t die. So aside from mercifully, for us, standing her in front of a knife-firing Gatling gun, we’ll probably have to watch yet again while she conjures her leftist orcs into one more slog from Mordor…
Her: Not a human really. Probably some sort of oven mitt-wearing zombie who rises every four years out of the primordial ooze with an infant-consuming smile and the fealty of dark covens who number in the millions. Her courtiers are signaling another run, as the ravenous beast within still can’t process the temerity of the American people in not acceding to her bloodshod coronation.
Pity her poor consort, who once ruled with a pretense of mental clarity, now consigned to be a prophet without followers in his own tent. She sees recent Democratic gains as but a prologue to another ascension, morphing into a Bolshie street fighter from the well-kept Wall Street puppet of lo these many decades. But underneath both still beats the heart of a rabid jackal, ready to take advantage of the sanctimonious stupidity of a great many Americans.
And one rarely goes wrong counting on that.
Crazy Uncle Who Lives in the Attic: He was a socialist not only before socialism was cool, but also when its primary world power was actively seeking to destroy the United States of America. Not like the typical Dem primary voter will hold that against him.
His 2016 run, that I saw up close and personal at that year’s Dem Convention in Philadelphia (even shook hands with the guy as we were both coming out of a deli. Taller than you’d think), was much composed of young lickspittles from the upper middle class moron factories of American higher education. The gray ponytails of those who tried to destroy this nation during the American suicide attempt of the 1960s were also there asking for a second chance at making the country into a version of modern-day Venezuela without the funny presidential sash.
He won’t get the trophy but will be a king, or evil queen, maker.
Cherokee Name Translated, She Who Has a Face Like a Dull-Witted Greyhound: The most annoying of the bunch, this was the junior high school kid who reminded the teacher she forgot to give weekend homework.
Her resume falsehoods are only exceeded by her Stalinesque ideology and her mirthless visage. She will hold the banner of the identitarian hard left who, when she loses the nomination to another hard leftist, perhaps even a woman, will blame it on “white males.” That the cause and effect doesn’t match will not phase she and her shrews in the slightest, as they have no operational frontal lobes.
Shyster: Not content with the noble honor of representing a common trollop, this low rent advocate seeks to lead a party of public sector whores. So no conflict there. He has the grasp on reality of, well, a Democrat, and has the subtlety and poetic grace of a groin rash. Thus, he will do nicely in the New York and California primaries.
Former Vice Stumblebum: Yearning for past glories when he was the helpmate of a Ba’ath Party sleeper agent, this 138-year-old dullard wants a 47th go around at the brass ring. He was no doubt assured in his intentions by well- meaning and innocent political consultants who have only his best interests at heart, not their hefty media override fees.
He would do better to adhere to the wise counsel of the Honorable Regina George, “Joe, stop trying to make president happen, because it’s not going to happen.”
Though, gotta say, did attend the same small Latin Rite RC Church with him in Wilmington, DE. He never made a fuss and was always polite to everyone around. So, maybe not a creep. Just a creeper.
My Little Phony: The first logical thought in wasting $70 million of other people’s money in a losing Texas senate race is to run for president. Yup, such is the clearheaded analysis and testosterone-light ambitions of the wannabe hidalgo.
When he does so, male fashion models and preteen girls alike will gasp with excitement and anticipation, as their scarecrow-like princess again flounces on the scene to this time waste at least five times as much money and receive one crackhead delegate from Rhode Island.
Malevolent Dwarves: Several nonsentient senators, a flock of congressmen and congressgals (heh), various overweening failure governors, approximately three Leninist rich guys, also-ran candidates, former Cabinet members bored with golf, and a particularly bad-tempered Maoist badger named Allen make up the rest of the potential field of Democratic competitors.
They share predictably socialist economic programs, patronizing appeals to minorities, extremely patronizing appeals to minorities if they are minorities themselves, and a hatred of the president so slack-jawed and bellowing that they make the chief executive look like the very picture of understatement.
The president, pouring himself a tall Diet Coke over his upcoming victims, must wonder if the next two years of Democratic aggression and subpoena-based fun from the House will raise one of these pygmies to a stature worthy of competition. Possible, though unlikely, as their individual froth and screeching to outdo the others in Trump hatred will, yes, resort in a nominee. But not one who, properly handled by gunslinging GOP operatives from, pray God, outside of the Washington metropolitan area, should pose a mortal threat to his presidency. The emphasis in the preceding sentence is on “properly handled.”
Though out of all the challengers mentioned, one admittedly stands out as not only fitting the bill for port swaying primary voters, but of possessing the innate gravitas and sober judgment needed to win the Democratic nod for the presidency.
That’s right. My money’s on Allen.