It wasn't just the rambling car wreck that was Clint Eastwood. I mean, what were they thinking beyond, "Yeah, the cranky old man said he supported Mitt," forgetting that, "He supports marriage equality, somewhat in contradiction of our platform... and has said on numerous occasions that he's pro-choice... and he cut that commercial during the Superbowl that supported the auto bailout... and, um, never really liked us anyway..."
Giving Clint the "Mystery Speaker" slot was rather like asking the boss who never really liked you to write you a letter of recommendation: He wouldn't outright call you a fuck up but you know he's not going to stay up half the night writing a paean to the awesome way you type some shit.
And it wasn't that Paul Ryan came across as Eddie Haskell writ large, where everybody, EVERYBODY knows the dude is lying through his geometrically perfect jaw and not buying his bullshit.
No, the end came when Mitt took the stage and, with as much charm as a button dropped into the toe of a shoe, attempted to convince America that he was like all of them.
You know, human. Rich, but still wondering how the dog shit got on the top of the car. Shifting his nuts with his right hand when entering a Lexus showroom.
(shift below fo' mo')
The most effective parts of his speech essentially said, "You felt good voting for Mojo Man but, hey, what up wit dat, yo? Ya'll need to give Mr. High-tee White-tee in tha magic underpants tha love you showed President Blackity-black-black-black some of that same love, ya'll, and let's get back to giving us (the rich white folks) a chance to screw ya'll some more. Cuz it worked out real well before, di'int? Ah-eight?"
(Cue the overhead screen visage of George W. Bush).
While the head spins and the pop-and-locks seemed a bit gratuitous, you gotta pull out all the stops when the bulk of your party (judging by the the scenes I watched, a party with LOTS of bulk) is pining for the days when the brown-skinned people knew their place, especially when they didn't vote for OTHER brown-skinned people who, y'know, might look out for their interests.
The last squeak was heard when Mitt admitted that he had actually hired women and, ohmygod, they might run for the senate like my mom and, you know, know things. Except things about their lady parts. And then, it's us guys in the Gee-Oh-Pee who got all those facts down so don'tchaworry pretty lady, the Patriarchy has your uterus in mind -- always.
Unfortunately, the rest of Mitt's speech descended into the few reasons why his flip-flops weren't really what he was talking about NOW because, he was reinvented, recharged, wearing $900 Chucks (no flip-flops for Mitt!) and ready to slip granny into hipster clothes, make her listen to Animal Collective so that she'd forget where her Medicare went.
While the faithful were up front, hand-waving and hippie-dancing, I swear that a huge number of delegates were making their way to the beer tent, mostly because they wanted to smoke a little with the Ron Paul supporters.
If we see any kind of convention bump, it's due to Clint growling, "Make my day" after being goaded by the fanboys in the audience. A bump that, given magic underwear, will soon find its righteous place among the flaccid expression in the impotence that is yesterday's party.
(Cross posted at The Firebird Suite where I blog about music, parenting, politics and hating Phoenix)
12:00 PM PT: Now with new and improved proper word placement in the title! (h/t astral66).
2:56 PM PT: I was tickled to see this diary kicked up to the Community Spotlight (how does that happen) when the only comment was the obligatory Tip Jar post. So, there's my obligatory, "Wow! You really like me!" comment.
Getting the hell out of Phoenix in order to go to Pagosa Springs for the Four Corners Folk Festival (I'll be working, I have to interview four bands and write four articles to justify my backstage press pass). You're on your own in the comments from here on out. Thanks, everybody!