Posted by
C. L. Palmer on Thursday, August 20, 2009 7:31:50 PM
Obama reminds me of Alfalfa from the Little Rascals. He believes he's the star of the show. He's always been told he's got talent, charisma, good looks, and the right stuff. When the curtain is raised and he begins to sing, he is baffled by the public reaction. Why don't they love me? Can't they hear my melodic voice? Where did they get all the fruit?
Ah, it must be the audience. Someone must have loaded the audience with people of poor taste. Why, this unruly mob is unworthy of my talent! It can't be my lousy performance or the crudely-worded lyrics to my song. No, all of my friends tell me I'm doing great.
Poor, poor Obama. Surrounded by yes-men, showered with affection (and sometimes drool) by Chris Matthews and company, he is in no way ready to hear, much less to consider, real criticism. Nobody likes to be informed of a mistake, but at some point you've got to bite the bullet and swallow your pride. We don't want Commie-Care! We don't want to be coddled and treated as children. How is it that someone so personally successful believes that others can't achieve the same success?
Poor, poor Obama voters. Once the euphoria of breaking the racial barrier wore off, they awoke in Stalin's Russia. It's sad, really. Not just for them, but for America.