Don't you just hate it when a prophecy doesn't come true? All his life, Mitt's been on quest for the presidency, a role for which he was preordained. The GOP convention is just days away, and the nomination is all but final. Everything's falling into place. All he has to do is pick a vice president who can add a touch of humanity and street cred to the ticket, get through the debates unscathed, spend Sheldon Adelson's money on some more factually bereft attack ads, and step across the finish line to get his reward. What could possibly go wrong?
...go wrong...go wrong...
Interestingly, Mitt's sons expressed reluctance about another run for the White House. Didn't they get the memo? What part of dynastic inevitability don't they understand? [...]
Probably the "inevitability" part.
Filled with umbrage and indignity, Mitt is pulling out all the stops. There is no lie or misrepresentation too egregious, no back-room deal too sleazy, no previous position immune to the possibility of retroactive revision.
Stripping away every last vestige of his supposedly self-made-man success, he stands before us like the emporer, naked, and holding a small hand-lettered sign professing:
"I'm not Obama"
and wondering what in the world he has to do to make this gosh-darn prophecy come true. How much more must he endure? When will this persecution ever end?
The hell-hound, growing impatient, snarls:
"Keep moving, jackass."
and a cold wind rustles the trees that no longer seem anywhere close to being the right height.
I get an image of Willard as a man treading water, barely able to keep his head above water and not quite understanding that each additional pebble from his past or his mouth that he's putting in his pockets has a connection to why it's getting harder to breathe.