The Sad Ballad Of Hillary Clinton
By the Comics Curmudgeon
In the wake of her defeat in North Carolina, and her win in Indiana that wasn't winny enough for most people's tastes, Hillary Clinton now heads a campaign haunted by the lingering stench of death. The question is, has her nose been so damaged by snorting the metaphorical cocaine of white working class approbation that she can't smell it? Check out America's cartoonists' take on the death march, after the jump.
The various political candidates are all selling themselves in the nation's political supermarkets, as if they were consumer products. They are whores, you see! Damaged whores. John McCain is gingko, because that's the sort of thing that old people take to protect their memory and capacity to reason from the ravages of age, but it doesn't really work. Obama, naturally, is Kool-Aid, since his cult-like followers will obey his every command up to the point of suicide, plus he likes to end his speeches with his hilarious catchphrase, "Oh, yeah!"
But Hillary has once again proved rather tin-eared when choosing her commercial persona. What is the Trix rabbit, after all, if not the ultimate corporate symbol of frustrated longing, the basically decent character that wants one thing more than anything else in the world and then never, ever gets it? Plus, who can forget the Trix rabbit's disastrous foray into electoral politics?
Still unaware of how meretriciously her campaign strategy reads, Hillary decides to cooperate with McCain on an erectile dysfunction drug ad that features the two senators happily frolicking across hill and dale before, we have to assume, going somewhere to screw, with the aid of prescription medication. Since John McCain is 178 years old, obviously he'll need it.
But the sexual pandering doesn't end there! Here we see that Hillary will even stoop so low as to participate in erotically charged cosplay to secure the nomination. Again, though, as is true in so much of her campaign, the actual execution is botched. Superman should be engaged in super-sex with some sort of spandex-clad hero-lady, while Hillary seems to have things mixed up with a deviant Oedipal scenario that even comic-book fetishists will find off-putting.
In the wake of that debacle, Hillary attempts to take her campaign "back to basics" by just having sex with furries. Somewhere, Tom Vilsack lets loose with a long, winsome sigh.
Clinging to her core constituency of grossly obese white people in hats, Senator Clinton decides to claim them permanently using the flag-planting method popularized during the great Age of Exploration in the 16th century, when Spain and her rivals carved out great empires in the New World. Unfortunately, in yet another terrible miscalculation, Hillary manages to secure only those voters whose girth physically prevents them from entering the voting booth.
Left at home to their own devices, Bill and Hil fall prey to the typical fantasy of the paranoid: That the TV is talking to them. Or have they mistaken the amiable stuttering pig for former campaign advisor Mark Penn?