Monday Late Nite: Andrew Dice Clay Blushes.
As I sat at my desk this morning, pondering the greatness that is the John McCain candidacy, I thought, "Watertiger, how is it that one candidate manages to have all of the right stuff at just the right time? Why, McCain is the ultimate D.C. outsider, the man who will again unite these divided States with his his vast foreign policy experience, his unassailable voting attendance record, his laser-guided recall of the minutiae of the internecine warfare in Iraq, his career as a P.O.W., his high-minded moral compass, and, well, gosh darn it, his common decency! How can John McCain possibly lose in November?"
How, indeed. Maybe when he calls his wife a "c*nt" in public, that’s how.*
In his 1992 Senate bid, McCain was joined on the campaign trail by his wife, Cindy, as well as campaign aide Doug Cole and consultant Wes Gullett. At one point, Cindy playfully twirled McCain’s hair and said, "You’re getting a little thin up there." McCain’s face reddened, and he responded, "At least I don’t plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you c*nt." McCain’s excuse was that it had been a long day.
Oh, John, you manly man! I swoon before your elegant, refined masculinity, you paragon of chivalry and courtly manners! Sir Galahad would have fallen upon his own sword rather than compete against you for the affections of the royal ladies. Sir Walter Raleigh would be forced to eat his own mud-covered cape in the face of your gentlemanly deportment!
Cliff’s point about this McCain explosion (and it’s a very valid one) is that it hardly bodes well for American diplomatic relations if the guy very publicly blows his stack at something as minor as his wife teasing him about his hair, not to mention that he might be especially ill-tempered if he gets a phone call at 3:00 a.m.
But my first reaction to this verbal abuse was more visceral: This woman paid for your Senate seat, you ungrateful, lumpen prole. She has been your personal ATM. You ignominiously dumped your wheelchair-bound first wife to marry this sylphlike beer heiress; her daddy hired your sorry ass when you retired from the Navy because you were never going to receive a
commission flag rank, Mr. "Keating Five Wheee I Love Flying in Lobbyists’ Jets." So, my friend, you’d better be watching what you call her, especially in front of large groups of people with tape recorders.
(I’m hazarding a guess that if Cindy McCain was probably jacked up on her ill-gotten painkillers at the time and didn’t even hear him; I can’t imagine him walking away with all of his parts intact if she’d been remotely aware.)
Say bye bye to more women voters, John. Who else will you alienate before November?
*Assuming, of course, that anybody in the media besides a bunch of dirty fucking hippies picks up this tasty little niblet.