The 34th Republican debate last night proceeded along a similar trajectory to the 17th, and I don’t have to remind you how that went. Every candidate hewed closely to the same tics and tedium that have carved political personas out of what were once born as human babies.
John Kasich, apparently on enough Zoloft to sedate one of Hillary’s thighs, remained sufficiently composed to educate the assembly on exactly what conservatism entails. Fortunately, it’s not a long list. The governor explained that the purpose of modern American conservatism is to grow The Economy, and secondarily to provide jobs. Jobs for whom? Whatever brown person will work cheapest, obviously. And as I’ve mentioned previously, there’s $574 billion in succulent economy rotting in Nigeria right now. So why wouldn’t the ultimate act of conservatism be to capture that essence for ourselves via statehood or population transfer?
Of course no one offered to contradict his premise. Which leaves us to presume the scenario of new parents gazing down lovingly at their infant child with the aspiration that it will one day make a positive contribution to the velocity of global exchange. Only Trump vaguely demurred from this dementia, adding a few codicils to the conserve our EBITDA! exhortation. Donald stated that conservatism also meant “conserving our country,” which is just one blond hair from saying “conserve our nation,” which is the entire reason why men ever thought to go through the exercise of electing executives. After all, the preamble doesn’t actually say To ourselves and our economy.
Moving on, Carson continued the practice of quiet reflection on his favorite flavor of potato chips, only rarely disturbed from this reverie to steeple his fingers and mumble something about “cool ranch on my website, bencarsondotcom.”
Bush meanwhile maintained the perpetually peeved expression that suggests he is getting this close to calling his mother. He continually blathered about the need for “leading from the front” while simultaneously qualifying his war wish-list with the necessity to form a consensus coalition. I’m taking the reins of this MFer right now! So you seven go form an exploratory committee, and let me know what you decide. Always left dangling from these who to bomb now deliberations is the question of why a waitress in Topeka should give a damn about our interminable Middle East interventions. The real answer to that being they will decide the source of her next 10 million neighbors. And she pays the bill.
Though the most amusing and illuminating interactions of the evening came as a result of Chris Christie wrapping his sumo sash around the neck of Marco Rubio. The resulting lack of lubrication fluid to the head apparently causing the latter to periodically seize up and reboot throughout the night.
I’ve been waiting for one of the more desperate candidates to make this lunge for some time now. That Rubio simply regurgitates microwaved hot pockets has been apparent from the beginning. He’s fairly good at it and impressive in his ability to maintain a handful of these mini-orations for ready recitation. Even his inflections and gestures are blatantly contrived. He’s little more in reality than a soap opera actor: reasonably attractive with nothing to say that doesn’t appear on a script. His patrons would have it no other way. And like everything else in America, the more obvious a thing is, the less it is acknowledged. So night after night it was Take 22! My father was an immigrant, a bartender, he loved America…and here’s why…Cut!
That is until Lipitor finally called him out…with extreme prejudice. As a plainly confused Rubio diverted some parry into his second or third iteration of the Obama knows exactly what he’s doing spam, Christie began an amusing color commentary simultaneously. In this he described the canned rebuttal as it was occurring. This so unnerved Marco that the remainder of his memorized bagel bites were lost, thus leaving him with only the one about which he had just suffered ridicule. And yet with nothing else to say natively, he embarrassingly fell back on it yet again. All to the great amusement of practically every man, woman, and child outside the Technology CEO Council.
Whether this injures Rubio’s donor patronage or not is uncertain, though going forward his handlers must know future opponents will enthusiastically flick aside these Hors d’oeuvres, leaving him obliged to make some extemporaneous remarks. And those should be the most amusing ones of all. Have you heard about his immigrant bartender father?