From David Brooks today, once again deep in his Republican Detachment Disorder cups, once again subtweeting his ex wife in a column about the "election":
It’s 2 a.m. The bar is closing. Republicans have had a series of strong and nasty Trump cocktails. Suddenly Ted Cruz is beginning to look kind of attractive. At least he’s sort of predictable, and he doesn’t talk about his sexual organs in presidential debates!
Well, Republicans, have your standards really fallen so low so fast? Are you really that desperate? Can you remember your 8 p.m. selves, and all the hope you had about entering a campaign with such a deep bench of talented candidates?...There is another path, one that doesn’t leave you self-loathing in the morning...
The gardener, Sarah? You're doing the gardener now!? By God and Calvin Coolidge, where are your standards, woman! Have you learned nothing? I mean, can some strapping young gardener ever incessantly exhort you on the virtues of humility like I can? Huh, Sarah? Can he? Can some mightily-thewed gardener with thick, wavy hair cascading down past his broad shoulders ever harangue you day after day after day into finally understanding the importance of a Grand Bargain? Can he, Sarah? Can he?!?
And not for nothin' isn't this exactly the same riff I wrote a month ago based on the creepy comments of an early Trump backer?
Looks Like Freedom But it Feels Like Death
It's something in between, I guess.It's closing time.And finally 2:00 AM comes, as it always does.Behind the bar, Micky has flipped the light once already and there you are, full of the Jägerbombs you've been pounding all night. once again stranded somewhere between Grandiose and Bellicose with no place to park your junk for the night. So it's time to either stagger over to Tammy's 4 AM and try your luck among the gang bangers, water-heads and other pre-dawn human rounding errors that wash up there between two and four, or finally pick one of the lovelies who have been flashing you their wares since midnight,Sure. one of them is a dead ringer for Edna Krabbappel, and the other one may be a dude, but what the Hell, it's late. So very late. Almost too late. And only a loser walks out of a place like this in the dead of night alone. And there is just enough booze thundering in your ears to convince you that maybe this time you won't wake up in a puddle of your own sick with both your wallet and the last remnants of your dignity gone.And that, boys and girls, is not the opening of a second-rate Raymond Carver story contest entry. No, it is the psych profile of the average Trump voter as translated from the original douchbag by professional tin pusher, beer-goggle Colin Farrell and Trump supporter, Ernie Boch, Jr...
Jesus, Brooks can't even pilfer competently. By God and Calvin Coolidge, David, where are your fucking standards?
For the benefit of future historians, the title of Mr. Brooks column today was:
It’s Not Too Late!Republicans still have time to reject Donald Trump, avoid Ted Cruz and pick a nominee who allows them to maintain their standards.
No, David, it was too late 20 years ago. And the chumps have already settled...and settled...and settled again and gotten nothing for their toil and tears but ashes, broken promises and more lectures from toadies like you on their duty to continue serving the Republican establishment.
The chumps have finally noticed that the only people who ever seem to profit from the ex cathedra pronouncements of always-wrong-but-employed-for-life establishment grovelers like David Brooks are always-wrong-but-employed-for-life establishment grovelers like David Brooks,
And however horrifying their 2:00 AM choices may be, they appear to be done with settling: