A Tin Foil Beanie Perspective On The McCain Story

Let’s pretend that I’m a Republigoat strategist of some kind, a real movement conservative, maybe a Huckaboo fan, maybe even somewhat of an Arthur Dimmesdale “more weight” kind of guy. And I am very concerned that there’s not enough talk going on in this campaign about a certain bereted cheeky brunette and her kneepads, because I’m deluded into thinking that people actually care about Monigate even though President Clinton’s favorables jumped 10 points on impeachment day. Now I know there’s a story about this cute little Cindy McCain clone. I don’t believe it’s got legs strong enough to actually hurt our presumptive nominee, but I’m willing to float it just to mess with him anyway because I just don’t think McCain believes in Jesus enough, and besides, I know it will do more harm than good when it floats downstream. So I go to the NYT, but I keep them on the hook until the guy has his toes firmly in the rock. I withhold her name, or that picture of the hickey on McCain’s neck, or some such detail; I want them champing at the bit when I’m ready. So, when John is the presumptive Republigoat nominee, and when Barry also has a whiff of inevitability, a thick manila envelope shows up at the NYT. They’re so freaked out to publish by now that they zoom it to the Web immediately. The story goes up, and my man McCain, aware that you either bat these away or you get beaned by them, has a press conference the next morning. The séance has begun. McCain denies the story, and, to my delight, he even waggles his finger a little. At the next debate, Wolf Blitzer constructs a question regarding this issue to Hillary Clinton, and she is forced to either sidestep the question or to once again address her husband’s peccadillo of a decade ago. As an added bonus, Blitzer feels obliged to somehow address the issue with Obama, which begins to raise questions about this tall, handsome, charismatic black man’s ability to be faithful. If I’m lucky, it might even rattle a skeleton or two in Obama’s closet. An ancillary benefit of this offal I’ve floated downstream is that I have single-handedly trained the camera back onto the Republigoats, where it belongs. Instead of talking about Obama’s ten victories in a row or superdelegates or plagiarism or experience or whatever, they’re talking about Republigoats, and the people are wiping the glaze from their eyeballs because, well, it’s about sexual intercourse. Another ancillary benefit to my gambit: The people are disimbued of any notion they might have had that the elder McCain has any trouble whatsoever getting it up. Yes, this story might just help narrow the virility gap as well as making the evil Hillary Clinton face once again the spectre of Monigate. I have accomplished all this, and, because I have floated the story about my own guy, I have not left any fingerprints.


(This post was green-lit at The Smirking Chimp.)

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