Will you catch the Democratic presidential candidates’ debate this evening from Las Vegas? If I were in Vegas, I’d probably be working the slots while some girl with beautiful legs served the obligatory double shot to loosen up the arm that pulls the lever or the finger that pushes the electronic button.
Except in my case the drink would be a Diet Coke or Pepsi or some other generic diet cola. Why? Well, I don’t drink. Why? I want to be in full control of my nerve endings when I decide which beautiful girls I want to reject my advances before the inevitable statistical laws of chance reward me with a partner who wants to share my diet drink.
And also in my case, I’m not in Vegas but in a tiny provincial town whose inhabitants are all, without exception, Republicans who hate Hillary and despise Obama. I will not watch the debate in a communal living room filled with hooters and shouters and cries of “God save Bush!” So, I’ll catch the generic talking heads later and maybe an abbreviated version of the debate.
Besides, what’s to watch anyway? Hillary is going to receive the beating of her life. All of the candidates have vowed to attack her relentlessly, as if destroying her or catching her in an inconsistency will elevate them to the winners circle without chancing an errant remark about their own stands on the issues.
Debates are natural-born gotcha happenings. Issues have become irrelevant, except to a few folks who sometimes wonder about the details of a proposed solution to a problem. Most people vote based on fleeting impressions of the candidates. Undecided voters talk a good game of careful consideration of all sides of an issue before finally announcing their choice of the candidate they have been undecided in favor of all along.
And, of course, they always broadcast their preselected choice as if a “fact” they were totally and completely unaware of had suddenly been disclosed to them and them alone like God revealed the Commandments to Moses on Mount Sinai. “I didn’t know that! I was going to vote for him/her, but this changes everything.” The revelation? He/she leaves the refrigerator door open while deciding on a snack. The intelligence of man at work.
But it’s all just good, clean fun, isn’t it? When all is said and done, and a final Democratic candidate has been chosen, everyone gets together for a backslapper and exhortations of “Unite!” Of course backslapping is kind of hard with all of the daggers still hanging between their shoulder blades.
On a positive note, though. By the time Hillary has run a mile through a line of hooded beings armed with splintered canes which they lay across her back with all of the force they can muster, she’ll be prepared for the Republican operatives armed with Texas chainsaws.
Sound cynical? You betcha. Politics isn’t a game for the faint of heart. But, what the hell…it’s a spectator sport par excellence.
Freshen my double Diet Coke, will you, Bubba?
What if a comet landed on the debate hall and wiped everyone out? You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?
Call me an optimist.
Willie, I’ve already broken my oath to ignore the debate. But from what I’ve seen so far, the Democratic Party might profit mightily if a comet did land in the middle of this assorted group of people, none of whom could answer a question with a straight yes or no. Guess my simple brain doesn’t grasp the complexity of a simple question. I need a re-fill of my Diet Coke, er, Tab. r.s.