The 2020 Democratic Presidential Nomination Campaign

Remember that this is Jacob Wohl, a prolific and shameless fraud. He came to national attention when he tried to bribe two women to falsely accuse Robert Mueller of sexual assault (one of them reported Wohl's sorry @$$ to the authorities). In August 2019, California issued an arrest warrant for him for securities fraud.Wohl is not well (German pun, there). He's been going downhill ever since Christoph Waltz and Bar Refaeli (Israeli supermodel) left his phony security company, Surefire (for which he used his mother's phone number -- any 8-year-old knows you never use your mother's phone number).

I recently saw part of a New Yorker piece by David Sedaris quoted (Shouts & Murmurs: Undecided By David Sedaris, New Yorker, 27 October 2008). Although written for the 2008 election (Obama/Biden v. O'Cain/Palin), his analogy is far more pertinent now:

quote:

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Then you’ll see this man or woman someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. Well, Charlie, they say, I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind! Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.

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I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?

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To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. Can I interest you in the chicken? she asks. Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?

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To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.

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I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?

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. . .

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... 1976, ... The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. That means an original, I told my roommate. Someone who lets the chips fall where they may. Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my hearttoo close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.

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I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. Isn’t that adding an extra step? they ask themselves. If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?

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Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in.

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The difference now is that for nearly four years now we have been dining on a platter of shit with broken glass, so we know what that's like.