Hillaryzilla

There’s not much these days that shakes me up. We’ve had about 20 televised debates. 20 or 30 Democratic primary elections and caucuses. I never know what Bill will do next.

I’m afraid of Saturday Night Live.

Tomorrow night is my night and every time I think about it I get chills. The possibilities are endless for a major screw up on national television in front of a live audience. I ask myself, “Hillary, how is this any different than a debate, or a campaign rally?”

In many respects it’s not different at all. It’s live. It’s televised. People are watching. The biggest difference, hence my fear, is the comedy element. A debate is not a comedic event, despite a few smiles here and there. The same goes for speaking in front of thousands of supporters. It’s just not a problem. After all, I don’t go up there to crack jokes.

But jokes and making fun is what Saturday Night Live is all about. Most people don’t know it, but when I laugh in an uncontrolled, unrehearsed setting, I snort. God. I will absolutely die if I snort on SNL tomorrow night.

Sometimes it gets so bad that not only do I snort when I laugh, but snot drips from nose and sticks to my lips. It’s not a pretty sight. All that has to happen is one laugh, one snort, one snot drip, and 5-million YouTube videos will course the world. That will do more damage than a dozen Monica Lewinskys. My fingers are crossed and I plan to take a dose of NyQuil before going on stage.

No one knows better than me how crazy politics can get sometimes. I didn’t want anyone to know, but I won half a delegate last week. That got me to 1,276.5 total delegates.

For a very pragmatic reason, the Democrats Abroad expatriate group were awarded delegates with half a vote. We set it up that way so that more delegates could attend the convention and think they were important by being there, but not inflate the vote.

These Democrats voted by sending in faxes, using the Internet, and by mail. Barack Obama got 3 delegate votes, and I got 1.5. The total is four and a half votes split among nine delegates. Call me crazy, but that’s new math, Democrat style.

So, I ended up with half a delegate vote. Not half a delegate, though some of them are half wits.

This is where it gets confusing. It’s embarrassing to have just half a delegate (vote), so we didn’t say anything about it, and the Obama camp doesn’t count too well and probably didn’t understand the complexity of this Democrats Abroad thing, so they didn’t say anything, either.

Today I picked up yet another half delegate from the SuperDelegates of Democrats Abroad. Obama got four delegates and I got one, which is really half, so I simply added the new half delegate vote to my total, and instead of 1,276.5 delegates, I’ve got an even 1,277 delegates, which isn’t really an even number, but it’s close enough and just sounds so much better than half a delegate.

Still, half a delegate is better than no delegate at all.

Chelsea came up to me after the debate last night and said, “Mom, you’re doing it again.” I said, “What? I smiled, didn’t I?” She said, “Yes, but you’re still obsessing over Barack, and it shows on camera, especially when he touched you tonight.”

She’s right. I’m obsessing. Neither Bill nor I have been able to figure out what Barack does that is so captivating to voters. Obama’s not particularly good looking, he gives good speeches, but his Senate record is as close to a mirror of mine as you can get. Hell, I smile better, and I certainly debate better.

Exasperated, I asked Chelsea, “Honey, we’ve tried everything. What do you think we should do?” Chelsea isn’t much for political strategy and tactics, so some genes just don’t get inherited no matter what they say, but she is observant in ways that exceed the abilities of her father.

Chelsea said, “Which Obama was on stage tonight? There’s more than one Obama, you know? Which one are you up against?”

She’s right. There’s more than one Barack Obama. Maybe someone cloned the guy and didn’t get it just right. Whatever it is, the Barack Obama you meet in person is boring, not in the least charming, almost stiff in an Al Gore-in-public way.

The Barack Obama on stage in front of a campaign rally is a gift motivational speaker, the ultimate android. During a debate, he just sits there and stutters, with his head cocked to one side, and struggles to complete a sentence.

Chelsea is on to something. There’s more than one Barack Obama. There’s the arcticulate and intelligent Obama orator people see in the television commercials and on stage addressing a crowd. Then there’s the stilted Obama who sits stiff and awkwardly through a debate and can’t finish a sentence. The problem here is that no one watches the debates so they can’t tell there’s more than one Obama.

Which one is the real Obama?

Barack Obama must be channeling Ronald Reagan. I’ve thrown everything at him for months and nothing sticks to the man. Nothing.

I played the Tough Hillary Card right before Iowa’s caucuses when our internal polls showed Obama taking a slight lead among voters. We thought it was a fluke, but just to be sure, Mark Penn said to act tough and strong, so I did.

What happened in Iowa surprised everyone, including Bill, and not much that happens in politics surprises Bill. Then he suggested we play the Hillary Crying Card in New Hampshire. Honestly, I thought that worked and we came away with a big win and some momentum.

The problem with the Crying Card is that it can only be used once. It’s a one time shot.

In South Carolina’s primary, Bill played the Race Card and that blew up and only made things worse. Fortunately, people in California and New York don’t pay attention to what goes on in South Carolina, so I came away with a few wins, but not as many delegates as we expected.

The Experience Card is a delicate play. After all, most of my experience has come by being married to Bill. Sure, voters love Bill and they would re-elect him in a minute if it were legal, but he’s got me chained to the past, and Obama keeps playing the Change Card at every opportunity.

I find it difficult to tell people that I’m an agent for change when I’m married to Bill Clinton.

I’ve played the Debate Card without much success. Obama gives great speeches, but so do I. I’m even better in a debate and everyone agrees that I took it too him, and wiped the floor with him in the two most recent debates. Bill walked in tonight, and I said, “Honey, I won. I was great. It was a debate for the ages.” And all he said was, “So what?”

Obama owns the Change Card and the Teflon Card, so what’s left? Mike Huckabee already has the Vulture Card. He’s just hanging around and hoping that John McCain falls asleep and doesn’t wake up.

To date we’ve tried every tactic known to modern politics to cut into Barack Obama’s allure with the voters. Nothing has worked. Nothing.

The most interesting piece of advice I’ve read anywhere came from Daniel Finkelstein of The London Times. He says I should shut up. That’s it. Just plain old shut up. Well, not shut up as in stop talking, but shut up as in don’t rag on Barack Obama all the time.

I’ll admit, it’s an intriguing  suggestion, and by using it I would be completely out of character. In the absence of any other tactic that’s worked, trying the one tactic that hasn’t been tried may be the only option left.

The gist of this strange tactic is this: Barack Obama is a rock star. People don’t care about his politics or his record or his experience or his lack thereof, they just want to see him sneeze, see him move, see if he’s real, regardless of how shallow he really is. Like a rock star, people want Obama to sing to them through his speeches and public appearances.

So, the only way to combat such an overwhelmingly spiritual and emotional attraction is for me to stop all negative campaigning and focus on my message. I’m experienced. I’m strong. I’m tested. I wouldn’t even have to say he’s not experienced, or strong, or tested, just so long as I keep repeating that I am. Somehow or another, Obama’s drug-induced attraction will wear off and voters will remember who’s really experienced, strong, and tested.

Bill and Icky keep telling me to attack Obama at every chance, but that hasn’t worked so far. Then again, this untried tactic of playing nice-nice to Obama might be part of a larger British strategy to get Obama elected instead of me. After all, they’re still upset at Bill because he gave a case of dental floss to Margaret Thatcher as state gift.

Politics never fails to amaze me. Just when you thought a political candidate was long dead and buried, he rises like a phoenix from the ashes to inspire the electorate. Well, maybe just inspire Tim Russert and the wags that watch Meet the Press.

Ralph Nader is at it again. The man is positively the anti-Marion Berry of politics, all goody-two-shoes about it, and working the press like Jerry Brown, but with more hair. All I can say is, “Go for it, Ralph. May the Force be with you.”

What this season of campaigns for President really needs is more viable fringe candidates. Dennis Kucinich was the Democratic fringe, and Ron Paul was the Republican fringe, though neither is intellectually viable, being mere examples of The Little Engine That Could (but not) class of campaigns.

The way I figure it is this– Barack Obama’s whole presidential campaign is pure fringe. Spiritual, yes. Substantive, no. Change, yes. Intellectual, no. Ralph Nader brings to the presidential campaign everything that Obama’s campaign lacks. Once voters see the differences, the effete intellectual faction and those that want to be, will migrate to Nader’s latest lost cause.

All we need is about 10-percent to defect to the other dark side. Long live Ralph Nader.

Maggie Williams was rummaging through Patti Solis Doyle’s desk, cleaning out the junk when she came across a photo of Barack Obama in Africa. She showed it to Icky and Mark, and they brought it to me.

A photo of Barack isn’t much news but in this particular photo he was touring Africa and got all dressed up in traditional African clothes with some kind of towel wrapped around his head. He looked positively black and Muslim at the same time. It was priceless photography. A true picture that tells a thousand words. Maybe more.

Hmmmm. What to do? What to do?

Should I listen to Icky and Bill and make sure the photo gets leaked to the press so they can raise a stir about Obama’s Muslim roots and again publish the fact that he’s actually African-American whose middle name is Hussein and his father belonged to the same religion that attacked America on September 11?

Or, should I listen to Maggie and Mark, and ignore it altogether? After all, I’ve visited many countries and worn their traditional clothing, too.

For example, my relatives came from Europe so I wear pantsuits which were donated to me from designers and clothiers in France and Italy. I’m sure I have some relatives from there.

The point is, American voters need to know something about the roots of their presidential candidates, where they’re from, what kinds of clothing they wear when they’re away on vacation. That kind of thing.

On the other hand, publishing a photo of Barack Obama all gussied up in proper Muslim attire could be seen as baiting or inflammatory or negative campaigning.

I don’t know and there’s only one real way to find out.

Alright, I praised Barack Obama during last night’s presidential debate. More than once. Is that so bad? I felt sympathy for the guy and figured he needed a few good words to build up his spirits. He looked so down and out of it all through the debate. He stammered and stuttered and struggled to complete a sentence.

These campaigns can be grueling. I know a thing or two about gruel.

But in no way was my praise a sign of Obama Fever spreading to the Clinton campaign. In no way am I throwing in the towel and calling it quits. Not today. Not next week. Not never. Well, never say never, of course. After all, it is politics.

If the truth be told then I’m simply doing what I see Mike Huckabee doing to John McCain. Frankly, those Arkansas boys are very shrewd when it comes to political gamesmanship. John McCain has the Republican presidential nomination all sewn up, locked down, put away.

Why does Huckabee keep running? Why does Huckabee keep saying nice things about McCain? Huckabee can’t win, right? The reason Huckabee keeps going is because tomorrow is always a new day. Always. If I were Huckabee I would do the same thing. John McCain is in his 70s already. He’s not a young man. His health is not that good. Tomorrow McCain could wake up dead. Then what?

Who would take McCain’s place on the Republican ticket? Mike Huckabee, that’s who. He’s playing the Vulture Card.

Making nice to Barack Obama is not an example of throwing in the towel. It’s a perfect example of strategy and tactics. Tomorrow Obama could wake up dead. Then what? I’m here. I can be trusted. I’m ready to lead on day one. I want Obama’s supporters to realize I’m their next best agent for change. Their dream will live on in me. I could channel Barack Obama right into the White House.

I’m so sick of presidential debates that I could spit. In public. On national television. The consequence of that would be better than enduring another debate full of endless prattle, mindless questions, and phony platitudes from CNN.

Sure, they call themselves the Best Political Team on Television but you would never know it by the way CNN treated me tonight. What was with that guy speaking Mexican, or Spanish, or Portuguese, or whatever it was? For crying out loud, if ever there was a time for English as a national language, tonight’s debate proved the time is now.

What bothered me most about having that Mexican guy ask questions? It didn’t matter which language he used, I still couldn’t understand what he said. Was he cursing the Clintons? Was he insulting Americans? Was he hitting on me? It’s already happened to me three times this week in Texas.

And where was the CNN translator? How are presidential candidates supposed to come up with appropriate responses in a debate if we don’t even understand the questions? This would not have happened if Patti Solis Doyle was still around. She speaks Spanish. Or Mexican. Or, whatever.

I believe in miracles. I believe in divine intervention. I believe that Bill Clinton’s race card idea didn’t work out. I should never have let him talk me into it.

It’s time for Plan B.

The only problem right now is that nobody is sure what Plan B should be. Maggie just doesn’t have a clue about political strategy. Harold and Terry are fresh out of ideas, and Howard’s already on record saying we won’t poach Obama’s so-called pledged delegates, so that’s out. For now.

Obama can thank his new buddy, Ted Kennedy, for the teflon delegate mess. He wrote the rules. Obama may have won plenty of delegates in all those caucus states but they’re not obligated to stick to him. Poaching a few here and there could be a last ditch effort, but it’s not looking too likely that we’ll take that route. For now.

That leaves SuperDelegates and a pickle to bake. SuperDelegates are Democratic Party insiders, former office holders, and party officials. They’re not pledged to any candidate and in a primary race this close will become the deciding factor if neither of us get over 50-percent of the pledged delegates.

In other words, party insiders can sway a close election one way or the other just because they want to.

The pickle baking analogy was Patti’s parting comment, “Hillary,” she said, “you and Bill are baking pickles again.” No matter how you bake it, a pickle still comes out as a pickle and that’s what we’ve got right now– a pickle. If Obama wins the total popular vote from all the primary elections and caucuses, but the SuperDelegates throw their votes to me, as I told them and expect them to, then voters will be upset.

For some reason, they still think their votes actually count in an election. How quaint.

Anyway, back to work on Plan B.