Hillary Clinton actually believes she still has a shot at the White House.
When Homer Simpson looks in the mirror, he sees ripped chest muscles and arms like the village blacksmith.
When Hillary Clinton looks in the mirror, she sees America’s sweetheart.
She thinks: America adores me! America already chose me to be president once! Everyone is comparing me with Donald Trump and realising I’m a better choice.
She is hoping for a call that will never come: an earnest, sobbing plea from the Democratic party heavies to be their candidate in 2020.
How else to explain Clinton’s media blitzkrieg? You’d think she’d be quiet, making a display of humility, working hard to rebuild her reputation for posterity by doing good deeds, saving cute animals, and writing nonpolitical books like The White House Cook Book – proceeds to legless rugby players in Surfer’s. Instead, she is acting like a fired-up political candidate.
This is the woman who, on Election Night 2016, slunk away from thousands of tearful, sobbing and groaning supporters in the Javits Center without even saying thanks to the broken-hearted who would have lain down in front of a bus for her.
These days she is once again singing her fight song. But it’s a pathetic 4 a.m. karaoke act and no one can bear to tell this frail elderly lady to stop screeching so they can mop the floors and turn out the lights. Because she has the personality of a cactus and hates everyone, she never should have entered politics to begin with, but her inability to leave it behind is an embarrassment. Not to Republicans mind you. They all hope she keeps talking. For them every tweet and MSNBC appearance is a dopamine cookie. It is merely herself she is embarrassing.
The media are, of course, a big part of this auto-humiliation, having constructed around her a fake township of fawning admirers to keep her self-delusion alive. She is the geriatric version of the Batkid, the leukemia-stricken little boy for whom the entire city of San Francisco agreed to dress up in costume and behave as characters from Gotham City to cheer him on for a day. (Batkid is reportedly in remission and recently celebrated his ninth birthday)
As Hillary sobs her way from the pages of The Atlantic to Maddow to Twitter, to teachers unions and unis, her acolytes cheer her on. She’s a “rock star,” exclaimed one fan on Twitter. Nay, she’s a Power Ranger! said another. Last year Clinton herself invited us to think of her as Wonder Woman.
Hillary Clinton is as much like Wonder Woman as Anna Puddle-Duck is like Grace Kelly.
Hillary Clinton’s tweets have little to do with promoting current presidential candidates, most of whom, truth be told, would prefer not to be too closely tied to her anvil-like presence, given that her 27 percent approval rating is lower than Donald Trump’s has ever been.
No, her public declarations are all bits and pieces of the exceedingly tedious Turnbullesqe stump speeches (“We need systemic economic reforms that reduce inequality and give a strong voice to working families,” yadda yadda yadda, rah rah rah) that she pictures herself being begged to deliver from a podium in front of 20,000 agog fans.
In Twitter this week, she claimed on one hand her outrage in the face of all the “institutions and traditions under siege” and then later, called for “abolishing the (constitutional)electoral college.” Never mind that the odds of the Electoral College being abolished are about the same as those of Malcolm Turnbull being named Australian of the Year by MM commenters.
Just because it Saturday here are two videos one in which Hillary says she scratched Bill’s vein open, the other in which Trump’s Press agent has the US press cowering.
Now a typical white house press conference:
They may not be real, you know, but they could be.