Posted by
beltway girl on Wednesday, April 02, 2008 12:14:31 AM
There they were, America's First Black President and his helpmate. There they went, out onto a wide and open road to the White House. There were no vehicles that day other than their own. There were big clouds and sunshine and the Party of Entitlement was living up to its name, with a clean and shining path to the Oval Office for the First Lady, based on her expertise as First Lady. And they did a poll dance on the roadsides as all the pieces seemed to be falling into place for the First Lady President.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the White House.
Its name? The Obama Campaign.
The Hill/Bill acted a if he were a poor straggler waiting for roadside assistance. They would have picked him up, they said, but he had his own ride.
Indeed he did. And it was said Obama Campaign.
And as he swung through Iowa, pulled nearly even in New Hampshire, and came barrelling into Super Tuesday, the Clintons sat there, with Hillary in the driver's seat with a scarf on her head making them look like the Thelma and Louise of '08 politics.
One day, around the time of the Wisconsin primary, when Hillary began pleading for another debate, the presidential couple began to notice that they were running out of gas.
What had drained the tank?
Bill's gaffes in the South Carolina primary, where he compared Obama's bid to that of Jesse Jackson, certainly hadn't helped. And the fairytale remark. And then, there was Hillary's LBJ diatribe.
The man that had not been "black enough" for so many months, he was now being painted in some kind of blackface by no one other than the First Black President, WJC.
Florida? Maybe they could go back to Florida, or Michigan, even. But the fuel gauge continued to fall, coming closer by the week to E.
Along came Texas, Ohio, and Reverend Wright. This was an oasis for the First Black President (now turning white) and his wife. They were refreshed. They, again, felt hope. As Obama battled back in the polls, though, Mrs. Clinton began to feel the heat of the sun through the windshield. She began to remember the sniper fire.
Obama bounced back from Wright, but the fatigued Clinton was now facing Romney-like flip-flop accusations on NAFTA and her untimely sniper fire hallucinations.
She pulled out the win in Pennsylvania. Some pundits tortured the figures in such a way so as to claim a victory in the overall popular vote, but in raw numbers, Obama held on, both in the popular vote and delegates, as they hashed and mashed out Oregon, Kentucky, Indiana, and North Carolina, the last of which Obama took by double digits.
When they stepped out of their trim, European vehicle outside the convention center, they heard a loud horn. They turned their heads.
Suddenly, they were inside the convention hall. Obama had just captured the nomination. Balloons were popping, people were screaming, and Reverend Wright was in attendance with a platoon of bodyguards. It was looking more and more McGovernesque by the second.
The First Black President had turned white again. The Obama campaign had washed him and his wife up as if with a box of Tide. The Democrats now dreamed of having their Second Black President, or First Actually Black President Who Would Remain Black.
Their political futures now splattered on the pavement, the Clintons stared in disbelief.
No, You, Can't!
And today, conservatives keep handing her the keys and telling her to keep driving.
Could such a thing happen?
Yes, It, Can!