When Tears Just Weren't Enough

Jack H grows weary of it all, this tawdry display of submediocrity. He finds it so tiresome, the shallow kabuki sans style or even symbolic meaning that is the political milieu. Where, he wonders, could significance be found? For no stone has remained unturned, and always to reveal something moist, blind and utterly loathsome. Most currently, Hillary, with her phagocitic appetite for power, attention, control, power, money and power. Well, who doesn't want these things. But she's so crass about it. Jack H understands that power, like wealth, should be inherited.

Do you deceive yourself, little one? Had you thought she elected herself to the Senate that she might make laws? Jack H smiles benignantly and stoops to pat your head. No, silly one. It was part of a larger plan. A line of stepping stones, the path of which is excruciatingly obvious to Jack H, but may seem obscure to more workaday minds. All along, you must see, Hillary clinton has plotted her Borgia-like course to the White House, redux. Wellesley and Little Rock, then White House and Senate, riding on and mounted by the bloated corpse-like flesh of her paramour -- enduring his attentions until she could find other less significant females to throw under the thundering hooves of his lust -- all that she might rule in her own name, outright. Yes. It's so clear. Painfully.

Satan cast down cannot have known greater rage than Hillary, in her fall. What betrayal did she or would she not have committed, to attain her ends? And now for what? That she may stretch a grimace across her teeth and pronounce platitudes toward the camp of that black man?

She'd have been better off, it now seems clear, to have stayed in Chicago, where politics is such a certain thing. How otherwise, given the facts? Witness, Obama's kindergarten slogan that moves the generations. Yes We Can!!!

When mean old Mr. Cant comes by
to put us down again,
we stomp our foot and slap our thigh
and say oh yes we can!!!

Who can argue with that? It would be insane. Insane and futile. Not in itself. Insane to argue with corruption. It is the way of all flesh, as a clinton must know.

This is not the last of her, of course. Some fresh infusion of blood will reanimate her, and she will rise from her grave, plucking with the resolve of yet another self-creation the stake from her breast, to soullessly wander the shadowed corridors through which greatness flits. Accompanied by her slavering wolven companion.

clintons. There will always be clintons, as there must be the night.


J