One nice thing I can say about Hillary Clinton is that she seems to love her supporters. Unfortunately, she loves them in the same way that John Hinckley, Jr. loved Jodie Foster. Case in point: after I signed up for a Hillary rally in West Des Moines on Sunday, one of her campaign volunteers called me on my phone, both to make sure I was still coming and to beg me to caucus for her. The best part is that I got the call just as I was leaving the Marco Rubio town hall I attended on Saturday.
Hillary Clinton is never going to let America ignore her. As Lana Del Rey can tell you, it’s hard work fucking your way to the top, and Hillary hasn’t spent forty years in the closet just so she and Huma can retire to Boca Raton and play backgammon. After eight years of double-teaming us during her husband’s administration, eight years of pretending to be a New Yorker so she could squat on one of our Senate seats, and four years of helping Obama turn the Middle East into an ISIS cul-de-sac, Hillary is here to win the presidency and save us from the twin terrors of the NRA and misgendering.
But don’t worry: this isn’t the mean, nasty, retrograde Hillary who got schlonged by the clean, articulate Black man in 2008. Mrs. Clinton is fresh out of rehab, with a brand-new Thorazine script and an unlimited supply of Botox. The bitch is back, but you better watch your mouth, young man, lest President Mom wash it out with soap.
Or at least that’s what Hillary wants you to think. It takes about five seconds of being in the same room with her to realize she’s still the same Machiavellian, triangulating alien in a skin suit we all know and loathe. The Hillary rally I went to at West Des Moines’ Valley Southwoods Freshman High School confirmed this, and also reinforced the fact that her campaign is held together with duct tape and snot.
The DNC knows this too, which is why Chairwoman Debbie Wasserman Schultz has spent the past year trying to turn the Democratic presidential nomination into an Ice Queen coronation. She deliberately limited the number of presidential debates (and scheduled them on days that no one would be watching), allegedly discouraged other candidates from entering the race, and even tried to cripple Bernie Sanders by denying his campaign crucial voter information they needed in order to plan strategy.
What have all these perks gotten Hillary? Sinking poll numbers, against not only Sanders, but against Trump and half the other Republicans in the field. It’s because of the shtetl Socialist’s newfound lead in Iowa that the DNC suddenly announced a televised town hall at Des Moines’ Drake University for Monday night, featuring him, Hillary, and political wallflower Martin O’Malley. Because that’s the reason why people won’t vote for Hillary: we haven’t gotten to know her yet.
I showed up at Valley Southwoods on Sunday evening with fifteen minutes before the doors opened. Reminiscent of the Donald Trump rally I went to, there was already a line, though the crowd wasn’t nearly as big; I’d say it topped out at around a thousand people. This was apparently more than the campaign expected, because I got to sit out in the cold for over an hour before I got in.
Hillary’s supporters fell into three demographic blocs: racial minorities (a group of Spanish-speaking Latinos were in front of me, a couple of elderly Black ladies behind), college-aged White feminist types whom I guessed were eager to see a fellow bleeder in the Oval Office, and old fogies who apparently suffered a vague nostalgia for the Bill Clinton years. Similarly, her campaign volunteers were either fuzzy-faced hipsters or dopey White girls with steatopygia, though I did see one cute short-haired girl in pajama bottoms handing out stickers.
The invasiveness of the Hillary campaign doesn’t end with random phone calls—oh, no. In order to gain entry to the rally—to which I’d already RSVPed online—I had to fill out a ticket with my full name, address, and phone number, a fun task when your fingers are stiff due to wind chill. Not only that, the obese volunteers led us in #BlackLivesMatter-style chants to “cheer us up.”
“I SAY MADAME, YOU SAY PRESIDENT!” “I SAY HILLARY, YOU SAY CLINTON!” I’d have gotten nauseated if it weren’t for both the cold and my bulging bladder forcing me into an out-of-body experience.
Inside, the rally took on a Strangelovian atmosphere. There was more than a scent of desperation in the air: not only did every volunteer pushily try to get us to pledge our support to Hillary in the caucus, both of the introductory speakers tried to force us into it as well. Not only that, during the rally, I got an email from the Hillary campaign asking me if I could donate $1 right then and there. The only thing that was missing was a team of bouncers to perform shakedowns.
Hillary herself was introduced by Chad Griffin, president of the Human Rights Campaign, an LGBT lobbying group (indeed, the volunteers were handing out “HRC = HRC” campaign signs). Griffin’s speech set the tone for Hillary’s new image as a hip progressive down with da yoof:
But Clinton herself looks like a nursing home habitué lapsing in and out of a fugue state. During Griffin’s introduction, she kept nodding her head absentmindedly, her eyes glazed over like she was struggling to remember why she was even there. When she took the mike herself, her mannerisms and tone made her sound like an autistic kid being spoon-fed lessons on basic human interaction:
It’s obvious why the wheels are coming off the Hillarymobile: her campaign is a massive, walking contradiction. Her attempts to rebrand as a principled leftist belie the fact that her name and popularity come from her husband’s centrist, Southern Democratic presidency. For example, she listed the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell as one of the great achievements of Obama’s tenure, ignoring the fact that it was Bill Clinton who helped create Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell in the first place. Hillary’s claim that all survivors of sexual assault “deserve” to be believed is especially laughable considering the lengths she went to in order to smear the bimbos who accused Slick Willie of rape.
Indeed, Hillary’s entire argument for why she should be president comes down to “because I said so.” She’s spent over thirty years loitering around the doors to power, so she thinks that entitles her to the keys. During the speech, she also made a series of passive-aggressive swipes at Bernie Sanders’ masculinity, implying he didn’t have the stones to handle the attacks the Republicans would throw at him. If the ability to withstand insults is the number-one qualification to be president, then I’m in the running for Padishah Emperor of the Known Universe.
Put simply, Hillary Clinton is Dorian Gray with a vagina. She’s a malignant narcissist who’s angry that her life is coming to a close, and her latest presidential campaign is a last, desperate attempt to obtain something she feels the world owes her. It’s telling that even with the DNC stacking the deck in her favor, she’s barely treading water in the polls.
Hillary’s only route to victory—in both the primary and general elections—is hoping that non-Whites can swarm the polls in sufficient numbers to make her “coalition of the fringes” strategy workable. Unfortunately, with Donald Trump galvanizing Whites to head to the polls, President Mom’s chances of success are eroding by the day.
So long, Hillary, and don’t forget the lithium.