I'm a little worried about John McCain. Not simply because of that nasty looking marsupial pouch stapled to his upper neck, but because he seems determined to wrong-headedly barrel down a path more dangerous than slaloming downhill blindfolded on a black diamond course with barbed wire gates at night. Let me explain. A while back, the erstwhile Senator from Arizona scheduled a fundraiser featuring President Bush at the Convention Center in Phoenix. But a few Democrats who weren't distracted by the ugly alley fight going on behind their own garage raised a stink. So they threw the most exquisitely horrible epithet at the Senator they could think of--John McBush.
This insult and some like it proved to be the motivation to move McCain's intimate soiree to a private home in Phoenix. Lots of deep-pocketed big time potential donors were invited but strangely, not the media. I'm guessing he's a mite reluctant to have that part of the electorate known as The Undecided see him all tarted up in fishnets and heels, dancing around a greased pole in front of his big Crawford Sugar Daddy (Brain bleach! Quick! - G). And if that image excites you, seek therapy.
The problem is even though the two get along like a cobra and a mongoose, Mr. McCain is really broke and must suck at George Bush's silicone-enhanced money tit, but isn't all that anxious to have a record of it. Typical case of needing the cash, but not the photo-op. Just another politician who wants to have his cake with the rich green icing flowing down and eat it too. Stuck between a despised lunkhead and a barren bank account. Damned if he does and doomed if he don't. Can't live with the president and can't take a ball peen hammer to his head and crack him open like a piggy bank then get down on his knees and scoop up every single coin that falls to the floor even those that roll under the dresser.
The ball peen hammer to Bush's head is a grand idea. Sorta like an empty piñata though - fun to do but nothing inside.