Cleared for Takeoff, Should not have been Cleared of Numerous Crimes
Broomstick One is the nickname given to Clinton’s private jet by the Secret Service. I really do not know the nickname for the plane. For all I know it could be the Magical Mystery Tour. Anyone on it and believing the nonsense coming out of Camp Hillary must be on LSD or other hallucinogens. [“The captain has turned off the Fasten Your Seatbelts sign and turned on the black lights. You may now trip around the cabin.”]
Groundhog in a Pantsuit
February 2nd is Groundhog Day. A day where some unsuspecting groundhog is jolted out of its sleep. Jumps out of its hole to cheers of early morning, drunken revelers. It is September, but it is Groundhog Day all the same.
Hillary Clinton played the part of the Punxsutawney Phil today when she popped her head out of her bunker to talk to a few reporters she allowed onto Broomstick One. She had to; the polls have been showing a steady decline. A few polls show Trump leading by a few points. The prevent defense of no press conferences was not going to hold up until the election. There is just too much time left on the clock and the revelations of illegal activity and lies will just not stop coming. Anyone that has watched football recognizes this scenario. You sit there screaming at the TV, “Prevent defense NEVER works.”
The parts of the drunken revelers were played by a choice few of the mainstream media. They were there like an offensive line protecting an aging and injured quarterback. Hoping that she has one more long drive in her before the coughing fit starts and the team has no choice but to release her.
You would think or hope after almost 300 days without a press conference the press would jump at the chance to ask some real questions.
‘Hillary, do you really think the American public is buying all this crap?’
‘Hillary, when was the last time you said something that wasn’t a lie?’
‘Hillary, what’s your comment on the Sniper Concussion conspiracy?’
Except, a seat in the press section of Broomstick One comes by invitation only. It is a prime position and if you are a reporter living out of a suitcase the size of a lunchbox and eating nothing but granola bars and water you are not about to give up a chance to savor those fresh roasted peanuts on Broomstick One. You play the game or go back to the random charter with bathrooms that work only at random times.
In need of a Kaine
So, you have a choice; you can listen to Hillary try and talk over the whine of the jet engines, or you can listen to her cough for 5 minutes straight as Hillary’s VP pick did the other day.
Tim Kaine was hanging back in the shade, not approaching the podium to give his boss a break or a drink of water, or any cover whatsoever. No, Tim Kaine did none of that. He knows better than to go off script and touch Broomstick One’s primary passenger. He likes his seat on that jet, and he intends to keep it.
However, the press and Kaine are like a 5-foot seawall trying to hold back a 30-foot tsunami. It will give way and will be overrun. The constant onslaught is unspinable. What they say today is only contradicted tomorrow by new information. Hillary is no longer speaking about her vision; her campaign stops are all about Trump. She cannot talk about herself any longer. There is nothing left to say that anyone either wants to hear or believes.
Now they are floating ideas that the Russians are looking to fix the election so they can cry foul after any loss. After the Wasserman-Schultz and Bernie Sanders affair, I was under the impression that the DNC liked fixed elections. Color me surprised.
On the other side, the enthusiasm seen at Trump rallies is best described as non-stop energy. Contrary to Hillary’s stops that look more like an IKEA maze way station for lost husbands and children.
Not even Sully can land this one safely.