Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Lord, But I Could Not Decide...

...Which graphic to use. Do I Go With The LOLFinished?

...Or Perhaps The “Die Hard” Plunge From Nakitomi Tower?

...Or Maybe, The “You Just Got Knocked The Fuck Out” Jammie...

...To commemorate the ignominious, ass-dragging end to the 2008 Presidential aspirations of one Rudolph W. Giuliani.

Did I mention that a hot, teutonic blonde's copped a seat next to me? Just outta the blue. Platinum hair. Thick Dietrich-cum Garbo accent.

What's your name baby?

“Schadenfreude, dahlink. Schadenfreude”.

She and I are gonna get to know each other a little bit tonight. Yes, Indeedy.

Kick off our shoes, sip a fine Riesling, and watch some TV. Oh. The news is on:

Rudy Giuliani, finishing a disappointing third in the state he counted on winning to jump-start his presidential bid, strongly hinted tonight in Florida that he will withdraw from the Republican race.

“Elections are about fighting for a cause larger than ourselves,” he told supporters in Orlando. “Win or lose, our work is not done.”

“I'm proud we stayed positive,” he said. "You don't always win, but you can do it right."

Giuliani called his rivals “honorable people, honorable men.”

The former New York mayor pursued an unconventional strategy where he skipped the early voting states, including Iowa, New Hampshire, and South Carolina.

“S-s-s-s-slurrrrrp!” Oh. Pardon me. It's the wine. Sippin' it a little fast tonight.

So, what to say?

This was pre-ordained. In the first week of this place's existence—on July 5th—The post was titled “Take A Number, Y'all...All 54,337 Of You”, and it dealt with the number of people laying in wait to wreck Rudy's Christmas-ornament fragile Presidential chances.

The bottom line? In spite of Giuliani's pundit-class angels--some of them quite powerful, like the Drudge-pimped pushers of anti-Hillary books, or yes, the "na-na" obsessed, psycho-sexually damaged ex-Altar Boys in the pundit class who love him so, (Wipe yer mouth, Tweety--you've got something on it. You too, L'il Russ.) there is a fucking legion of folks out there who would like nothing better than to forcibly ass-pound this campaign--dry and angrily. And then turn and point at it lying there ruined, while laughing "Yeah... I did that." It's nasty. But true.

We're looking, a year-and-a-half-out, at a campaign that could well die the classic "death of a thousand cuts"

Problem, though.

There's about fifty-thousand pissed-off, potential perps with knives...all waiting for a turn.


Took a lot fewer than that. But God, it was still plenty, It died from cuts inflicted by axe-tosses from the Firefighters, the New York media, his kids, his book-cooking, his hubris, his churlishness, his inability to diversify his campaign, his laziness, his greed and most damningly, his Hindenburg-ian ego.

It will be remembered by many as perhaps the ultimate Potemkin campaign—a cardboard and papier-maché thing hung on a wet and bowing pipe-cleaner frame. And here in NYC, we are laughing our ever-loving asses off at the utter collapse of the rickety-assed thing. All I can say is that you had to be here to understand why we New Yorkers didn't want Rudy-style government visited upon the other 49 states and of course, any sovereign nation with a funny-sounding name that pissed him off.

Take the worst elements of Captain Queeg, Nellie Oleson, Stinky from Abbott & Costello, and an STD'd scorpion, bundle it into a man and put said man in charge of a complex, challenging city and you'll get what Rudy Giuliani was really all about. Tourists and outsiders didn't get him. They didn't have to live with him. They got the cathode-ray Bing Crosby of the pipe, red alpaca sweater and the Christmas specials. We lived with the drunken Bing swinging the extension cord and windmilling signet-ringed fists as he prowled the house looking for someone to fuck up.

Time won out, though, and it managed to utterly expose him. Quite honestly, Rudy was nearly as lazy and disinterested a candidate as Fred Thompson was—both of them lazy honoraria-grabbers swearing somebody owed 'em something because they thought they were somebody . And in the end, they can now go meet at Tree's Loser Lounge and swap notes on star-fucking and prosecutorial malfeasance.

Me? I'm gonna sit here with the icy blonde tonight, and get around town a bit later in the week. I'm sure I'll see a bunch of her doppelgangers out and about with my fellow revelers in town. But for now, the mind wanders.

What's Ol' Judith gonna do now? Cialis and dough is fine, but mama wanted more. Access to power was the drug. What new doll will she start crawling after in the “Valley of Delusions”?

The Aqua Velva's gone—along with the leathery, old-man skin. And now, so too is the “tough cop”—his precious Sipowicz. It's down to McCain for Tweety to toss the lettuce, tomatoes and ranch dressing for. Ick. I just threw up in my mouth. Not a little. A lot.

And the irony isn't lost on me that Rudy's final come-down is tomorrow in California—of all places, Simi Valley. Home of the Reagan Library, and home of the springboard for the police-brutality-fueled L.A. riots. Rudy should be right at fucking home.

Full circle. Bullshit's end. And please let the door hitcha' on the way out—and may there be a patch of ice right in front of the Goddamned door.

Hey, my lady friend wants to dance! Well...okay. Pick out a nice song, fraulein. Oh my...that one's goood!