Tom Tancredo, insane xenophobic failed politician from Colorado, had harsh words for the angry Arizonan, shouting-at-the-clouds codger and the sociopathological grifter from Alaska:
Former Republican congressman Tom Tancredo was the opening speaker at the recent Tea Party conference with Sarah Palin. In an interview with NRC Handelsblad, he spoke his mind about Palin. “I really don’t have this feeling about her as being presidential.’’ He referred to John McCain as a “nasty, mean’’ and “peculiarly unstable’’ man.
Oh, snap! Who died and left Tancredo Heather Chandler’s red scrunchie? Dude sounds a bit like the protagonist of Prometheus Unbound, struggling to bring down the House of Zeus, only exponentially more batshit crazy, and without the impressive bloodline.
There is also something innately comical about the Political Flame-out King calling the likes of McCain and Palin “unprincipled politicians,” “not Presidential” material, and “unstable.” It’s like Imelda Marcos calling Carrie Bradshaw a shoe whore. Seriously, don a rain poncho and whisper the word “Mexican” in front of Tancredo, and watch as he foams at the mouth faster than a freshly-opened can of Scrubbing Bubbles™.
Moreover, the 15-watt keynote speaker at the Tea Party Convention proves he still doesn’t comprehend the way the interwebs work:
Do the Tea Party people realise that you supported the bailout?
“I don’t know.’’
And if they knew, wouldn’t they be angry with you?
“Yeah, I am sure that would take the lustre off.’’
Mijn god, doesn’t he understand that even the Dutch newspapers have online editions accessible around the world? Or is he so blinded by his own stupidity that he believes just because he doesn’t know how to use teh Google, his racist teabagger fans don’t know how, either?
I guess we’ll have to wait and see whether the Tea Party bestows the red scrunchie on someone more . . . politically pure.
Postscript: And on a somewhat related note, it is with great sadness that I have report the death of Harold Ford’s non-campaign campaign. Farewell, Count of Carpetbaggerton, Duke of Douchebaggery. I shall wrap myself in black and purple bunting and strew rose petals on the sidewalk outside the Hotel Regency, crying fat, salty tears all the while.
Of course, now Larry Kudlow can step up to the plate . . . assuming he’s not currently incapacitated, grinding his teeth down to the gums in a crackhouse somewhere on the Upper East Side.