Hiding deep in the darkest corners of the liberal subconscious is a creature so terrible that it can launch presidential candidates out of bed in fits of terror. Clad only in a loincloth knitted from shredded tax documents and seated upon a throne of baby skulls, Ralph Nader is a democratic strategists’ nightmare come to life. He’s for all the things that the candidate with a chance of winning says they’re for, with the caveat that Nader is actually for them. He’s appealing to voters pissed at the two party system. He’s a consumer advocate who despises backwards regulatory committees letting shit flow like Manteca Waterslides. He’s down to legalize ferrets and weed. Clearly Ralph is more monster than man.
Nader entering the presidential race means that the dems lose a chunk of the vote automatically. It doesn’t matter if those votes come from stoners and ferret-lovers; a vote’s a vote. Of course, he’s not very charismatic. Or handsome, for that matter. The man looks like a yuppie crypt keeper. And since the Green Party might as well be a Lovecraftian cult in the eyes of most Americans, Nader will never, ever win. But he keeps on running. To hardcore democrats, that’s the most terrifying thing of all.
An old media windbag with a serious case of Mr. Magoo hair, Matthews has developed several techniques for making republicans say things they don’t want to. That’s because he takes his anger like he takes his airtime: as much of it devoted to his own opinions as humanly possible. He doesn’t pretend to be nonpartisan, but this boon to his mostly liberal audience means a concentrated ball of pure venom is aimed at every conservatively minded individual that steps into his split-screen discussion panel. Said ‘rage venom’ is stored in a large, pasty sac directly over his large, pasty face. It might be in the same place as a human forehead, but it’s a sac. Trust me on this.
Tuck has taken a lot of shit over the years from populist Republicans, and with good reason: he’s one of those ‘good’ Republicans people sometimes talk about. The kind that used to exist back when old men farted sunshine and the colored fountains were filled with sodey-pop. Carlson really pissed off his party demographic when he supported gay marriage, and pissed off liberals even more when he wore brown slip-ons with grey socks. Not as full of bluster as he was at the start of his career, he’s a fairly moderate (comparatively speaking) guy as long as you don’t count that dead possum he calls a hairpiece.
Future political footnote and penis-filled bar banshee, Michele Bachmann is currently running for the republican nomination for President of the United Fucking States. Let me paint a picture for you: Michelle Bachmann’s spindly slenderman body and reverse wind tunnel hair hiding in the fucking bushes during a gay rights rally. Michelle Bachmann deriding the use of fluorescent lightbulbs during a statewide conservation push. Michelle Bachmann going on national television and announcing that we should start investigating our elected officials to find out if they’re secretly socialists, so that what? We can kill them and steal their powers?
The only position of leadership I can imagine Bachmann holding successfully is that black lady from Mad Max, or maybe the bald guy from Waterworld. She is insane. Grade A, corn fed crazy. And if she runs, the Dems win. She won’t, of course. Not even we’re that stupid… right?
This dude just can’t get a break. With the Republican bloc ready and willing to destroy America’s infrastructure ten times for every minute he remains in office and a population who isn’t feeling as hopeful or changed as they were three years ago, Obama has a really tough road ahead of him. But to understand why we have to go back to a simpler time, when two dozen college kids could sit in a dirty living room pounding Tecate while the embodiment of all that is good in the world rose up and saved us from ourselves. Babies cried. Orgies broke out. More babies cried. People around the globe danced in the street. “This guy,” they cried, “this guy parties.”
Except that he wasn’t the savior of humanity (though he did party). He did some cool stuff, health care being one. Did some shitty stuff too, the second round of bailouts being one. If you look at the record, his cool-to-shit ratio is about 1:1. That’s pretty good for a president who’s getting stonewalled by an inept government. The real problem with Obama is that he sold himself as the answer to all our problems, number one best president who is also handsome too as well. In truth he’s just average. And if there’s one group of people who haven’t had the will to live ground out of them by the trials and tribulations of day to day living, it’s the college students he sold on that promise. They’re pissed. They’re broke. They’re shitting in the park. And if the election night binge drinking was any indication, they are not ready to be down with average. Obama’s problem isn’t beating the right. It’s beating the position he’s put himself in over the course of his time in office, if not for him than for the benefit of his previous supporters. We’ll see if he can stick it out. And hey, if not he can always go back to Hawaii. Hawaii is nice as fuck.
Herman Cain’s political career is the 2012 presidential campaign answer to Hansel and Gretel, if instead of bird seed the trail back home was made of Whoppers and 7oz. bottles of Coca-Cola’s Salad Water (also: bring back Coca-Cola’s Salad Water). He made Coke more profitable, he made Burger King a lot more profitable, he made Pillsbury even more mega-stupid-rich than it already was, then he bought Godfather’s Pizza and didn’t really make it do anything. Eight years later he bounced from that shithole with millions of dollars in franchise CEO money in his pocket, a twinkle in his eye and heartburn in his chest.
And now he’s running for president.
Yes, Cain’s career in the food industry is impressive. Politically however he weighs in as a plain ol’ douche, with ties to the Koch Brothers (surprise), anti-abortion activists and an overtly racist advertising agency that made it really easy for college students to make bad jokes at parties for almost a decade. That bastard. With 9-9-9 coming under fire from economists everywhere and his recent ad's newfound status as the new “Friday,” Cain is just shitty enough to make the cut for the big show. And that should scare everybody.
Maddow, despite being one of the four or five television personalities that actually make up the legendary “liberal media machine,” is pretty hot. She’s also pretty gay. My own romantic tragedies aside, she’s been growing fat off MSNBC’s understanding that not every female commentator has to be a former USC head cheerleader (complete with letters). Taking the oft-referred to liberal introspection and the trademarked pundit vehemence to balanced verbal intercourse, Maddow quickly rolled out the red carpet to her new show in the months before the 2008 Hopelection as Keith Olbermann’s answer to “Let’s All Go The Lobby.” It was a colossal success.
Though her early audience, unfamiliar with her radio work on Air America, was mostly a criss-cross of those wondering whether she was straight or not, she has since established herself as someone who wears a formal blazer with sweatpants and skater shoes. Despite this her political anger has slowly improved upon it’s own views of life and personal integrity, and America began to see truly primetime right-bashing among the ever growing piles of Luna bar wrappers. Her show is still on the air, and she’s still a stone cold fox.
Beck broke into the pundit business after he won a radio contest to be a DJ for an hour, crawling from the deepest recesses of local Christian broadcasting all the way to the deepest recesses of CNN’s 9PM time slot. From there it was only a short leap to FOX, where he enjoyed much fame until his celebrated being a crazy fucktard finally caught up to him and the advertisers pulled the plug on his chalkboard. His psychology is a case study in itself, as his conservative Christian beliefs seem to be attempting to escape from his sense of humor, which are in turn trying desperately to flee from his deep seated self-loathing and painfully visible daddy issues. Seriously, stop humping the leg of country music singers. We get it. They have hats and guitars. Much like your father who you never talk about.
Those seeking a moist slice of Glenn Beck pie can find his current fortress of doom hidden deep in the marshes of internet-based ‘television’ network GBT, where he reigns as king of the water loompas for all eternity.