Karl Rove reflects on Obama and fleshes out the picture with commentary that seems similar to what I was saying yesterday about Think Progress. In his meta-commentary, Ed Morrissey calls him the Jon Stewart candidate:
Unfortunately for Obama and the Democrats who have carried him so close to the finish line, that “fierce urgency of now†is nothing more than a soundbite for a legislator who doesn’t legislate, an agent of change who hasn’t changes anything, and the beacon of hope who hasn’t felt an urgency to take any action in the “now†for the past three years. He’s been eating his waffle and hanging out with people who don’t like America or Americans much. That qualifies him to work the next Daily Show spin-off, not run the nation.
In my view, “the fierce urgency of now” could possibly pertain to the Waffle Imperative or the Beer Relief Imperative. But most of all, considering his refusal to debate any more (he’s already answered, like, eight questions), he has become the Bartleby candidate (without the sinsemilla).
This is a problem. It registers as a kind of non serviam, when, by popular prejudice, at least, the Office of President is one of service, a great portion of which consists simply in making oneself available. It is not a question of what the candidate considers fair or ample. It is a position that demands continual responsibility in the etymological sense of the word. This is a Baracky who thinks he’s got the belt and doesn’t want to step into the ring.
Dan, you magnificent bastard. Let’s continue to have the audacity to hope that America recognizes him for the charlatan he is.
Reach across Baracks’ waffle one more time and you’ll get the butter knife!
O!
[…] Dan Collins has got Obama pegged: […]
A lot of the rhetoric from the Obama camp just plain bothers me. Too much of it seems to be base appeals to false urgency or collectivism.
Why would you order a waffle? Judgment to Lead?
klahoma!
– And even worse, you can bet your waffle that his handlers are so whacked out on Obamafumes, or inexperienced, or both, they’re not going to know just how mangled hes going to get in the general if he tries to play rope-a-dope during the main event.
– I blame it all on Hillery. Heh. She knows exactly what shes setting him up for if the Clinton machine fails to game the nomination.
– It will be tha old parting shot of the butcher knife stuck through the note in the front door, “Bite me bitch”.
Rove’s closing line about Obama.
His conduct in the last several weeks raises questions about whether, for all his talents, he is ready to be president.
Ayup, not only does Rove see it, I think this perception is what truly animates the Clinton’s. In Obama, they see themselves a long time ago, long before they moved up to the national stage. As they once tried to say, take way the color and all you’ll have is an untested neophyte singing one of the oldest songs in the politician’s hymnal.
If you can’t stand the heat, get off of the waffle iron.
Ow!
Holmes, you ‘leggo my Eggo. Straight up down with it, yo! Large bettin’ my pocket Glock won’t fill your bitch typical grammy full’a bling? Better go chill on my waffle, Jaw Bone. Ain’t breezin’! If tuff posen wanna talk dead random, I’m cold thug, pimp-matic! Now roll away from my waffle, dawg.
I scared Alp straight!
O!oners
Listen, if it came to it, I’d much rather have Hillary as POTUS. She is pretty much a known quantity. I’m far more afraid of an empty suit.
Listen, if it came to it, I’d much rather have Hillary as POTUS. She is pretty much a known quantity. I’m far more afraid of an empty suit.
Bitter Bible’n Gun-Clinger Translator Translation: Fuckin’ A, you say for a Presdent? She’s a sturdy white woman and him’s just a Negro! He’d scare mah chillen!
straight like a fox.
Wow, my very own thread. This calls for a poem. I dedicate this to cynn’s swollen heart.
Cinney
by thor Gabriel
Lazy laughing languid cynney
Fond of a kiss and fond of a penny
Of Love’s exuberant hotbed: — Nay,
Poor flower left torn since yesterday
Until to-morrrow leave you bare;
Poor handful of bottled spring water
Flung in the whirlpool’s shreiking face
Poor concerned cynney full of grace
Thus with your hand upon my knee–
Whose soldier or whose M16 may be
The lodestar of your reverie