It took me most of the morning to recover from last night’s Barack Obama tragedy, and the Black Hole of Calcutta depression that resulted. Thank you, Barry, for yanking out my butt-cork and making me feel as if my soul was draining out and falling to the carpet like sand. Wait…is this happening? Oh God, It is happening. The man has an arsenal of damning facts at his disposal and he’s not using any of them, and he’s losing this debate to that Amiable, Good-Natured, Lying Republican Country-Club Slimeball.
I wrote last night that “I know what it’s like to half-prepare for something and then go out there and just blow it.” You can prepare a lot of or not so much, but you have to want to go into the arena and smile like a Cheshire cat and rip the other guy’s throat out, and one thing that mild-mannered Barry has always had difficulty with is being adversarial and confrontational in a one-on-one situation. All I can say is that he’d better wake the hell up, man up, toughen up, call in Chris Matthews for some debate coaching and get out there and turn this thing around in the next debate. I haven’t been this angry with him since the budget standoff and his reported willingness to compromise with Boehner and the other fiends. I hate wimpitude.
Obama has the wind behind him, he has the edge and he’s likely to win, the numbers are looking good and he all but forfeits the debate because he has to be Mr. Smiley and because he problems with aggression?