The Fat Lady has sung. The last dog has died. And still she hangs on, clutching her barely-there 2-percentage-point win in Indiana. From her cold, dead hands, children. From her cold, dead hands.
What I will miss most about my Hillary — for yes I am a supporter and yes I would vote for her again and yes, yes, I know, she is sooo cooked — is the way she would look at Barack Obama during the debates. That frozen glare behind the frosty smile. The slight uptilt of the forehead. God, that was priceless!
There would be ol’ Barack sawing away, spinning out misty uplift about change and hope and the American future, slipping ever so carefully into the palest of black preacher cadences, something for the home team, no Reverend Wright of course; more Miss Diahann Carroll in an Oleg Cassini gown glossing her way through Aretha: R. E. S. P. E. C. T., ladies and gentlemen. That’s what y’all mean to me.
And there would be my Hillary in all her late-blooming girlishness, no more the cast iron Mrs Clinton, late of the White House, the Madame Fu Man Chu of 1000 attack books from every blonde Republican woman writer on the planet. Now she was simply “Hillary,” newly blondized, Georgette Klinger radiant, on a flirtatious first name basis with the American people.
True, in her early days on the stump, she came off as stiff, serious, no fun. Still having to prove that women were as tough-minded as men. That might have worked in New York, where she was elected to the Senate, that might have worked in the Congress, where even bilious Clinton haters had to grudgingly acknowledge she was well versed and thorough, but that wasn’t going to fly out there in Televisionland. So she girled up. Became a Reality TV contestant in the American Idol competition that was the 2008 Democratic debates. All red-carpet razzle dazzle brought to bear against the dour law professor, with his down-turned lips and his *solemn — here I risk a racist word — dignity.
Yes, white people have dignity too, just not so much of it, not like our new sprung Barack and Michelle who are rising ever higher. Ah, Barack and his stylish wife (Howard Stern calls her “Blackie-O”) with her own set of dour, down-turned lips. There is all the marble dignity in this power couple of the nine Supreme Court Justices standing on the 20 Supreme Court steps with the History of Jurisprudence frieze framing them in gravitas.
Now my girl Hillary, she has no dignity. She’s shameless, She’s ruthless. She’s Hermione Granger, waving her hand at the front of the class, with all the answers in her head. You couldn’t possibly insult her. Swift boat Hillary Clinton? Pul-eeze! Been there, done that. Let us count the ways:
for mocking the Stepford Wives of their daydreams
Lesbian. Murderess. Wiccan. Shyster Lawyer. Whitewater Profiteer. Lady Pimp for Bill’s Bordello of Bimbos…
These are just the whitened bones still glistening on the shore, skeletons of broken Mrs.Clinton hate campaigns from her First Lady days, funded at first by Falwellian crackpots but soon by savvy Republican strategists who could see far up ahead to the Oval Office.
They first smelt blood back during Bill’s initial run for the White House when she stepped forward in her signature headband and said she wasn’t one of these little women who baked cookies all day. How the Right Wing hated her for mocking the Stepford Wives of their retrograde daydreams. What hell they raised over “Cookiegate.” How completely it flopped with the American electorate.