Greetings this evening as watchful souls turn to their eyes to South Carolina.
During the interminable intermission I've read oodles of analyses on Newt's risings, and two theories emerge: "voters love Newt because they loathe the liberal media" and "Newt is just a place holder until the real savior comes along."
A brokered convention would be amazing. Fascinating. A veritable popcorn festival. And right now, I don't know which end is up.
But a brokered convention is entirely possible. Because if South Carolinian GOPs can embrace an old wart-hog like Newt, the national GOP will bear-hug a barely-vetted Daniels in Tampa.
Aye, but speculation is my hobby. Tonight puts me in mind of my (limited) sailing days, when the captain would shout, "Come about! Come about!" And Romney got hit by the boom.
Ahoy, fair maties. May the best man win.
XOXO
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3 comments:
I CAN SEE WHY HE GOT HIT ON YOUR BOAT. THE CAPTAIN IS TO ANNOUNCE "READY ABOUT, COME ABOUT: A LITTLE NOTICE IS REQUIRED.
I CAN SEE WHY HE GOT HIT ON YOUR BOAT. THE CAPTAIN IS TO ANNOUNCE "READY ABOUT, COME ABOUT: A LITTLE NOTICE IS REQUIRED.
Ah, but it wasn't my boat. And he had a lot of notice.
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