In six short months Senator George Allen went from popular Senator and potential Presidential candidate to sniveling unemployable house-husband (insert your own Jeff Goldstein joke here). How did this happen? Sensing something dark and dirty in his past (those sealed divorce papers) Time magazine put Ana Marie Cox on the case hoping for some whiff of domestic violence or at least some butt-sex; we’ll pass on the whiff of that, thank you very much.
As we learned from George Bush’s testy remarks about Karl Rove the other day, the ultimate blame in lost elections is usually the result of bad advice from people whose sole job it is to give good advice. And since no campaign collapsed quite as fast as Allen’s did, it’s time to take a look at just who gummed up the works in the Allen machine.
What seemed like a harmless affectation was a cry for help from a man wallowing in his own uncertanties. Soon he turned to the only thing in his life, a piece of sports equipment washed up on the shores of his isolation. It was inevitable that Allen would soon start listening to the soft murmurings of his inflated friend as he cocked his arm back and waited for a neighborhood kid to “go long” and Wilson, nestled by his ear, would tell him the things he wanted to hear. Soon, it got out of control:
“Call him macaca,” said Wilson, “that’s some funny shit.”
“You can’t be Jewish,” Wilson counseled. “Look at me, I’m pigskin, and I’m your best friend.”
“Dude, you should totally use this porn I found in Webb’s book,” Wilson exclaimed. “It’s totally off the hook.”
“Let’s you and me go snort some blow off of a Redskin cheerleaders ass.” Wilson helpfully suggested.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Next up: Ken Mehlman’s Malibu Barbie Confessions.