The Smurf Has Claws
"He even looks dashing in a Santa suit." Pretty sure that's not going to be senator and vice presidential wannabe John Edwards' legacy, but as a choreographed slice of Americana it played straight out of the Pollyanna playbook: Like a scene set in the doorway of Floyd's Barbershop on the corner of Main and Elm in Mayberry, the capital of the great state of Norman Rockwell land. Then the Missus, Elizabeth, revealed the destination of the Edwardses upcoming anniversary dinner as Wendy's, and you could hear the "awws" reverberate around living rooms all over the country – especially those with doilies on the couch. "Aren't they just the sweetest down- home, make- you- want- to- gag- your- peas- and- pot- roast- dinner- into- the- kitchen- sink couple you ever did see?" Yes, they are, and I'm sure power grids endured redlining surges as garbage disposals clean up the treacly detritus en masse.
I know he's the new darling of the left, all four Beatles rolled into one and each of them is Paul, but there's something a little creepy about the Primary Wonder Boy. Maybe it's his, "just plain folks" electric lawyer smile. A little too bright and with a tendency to turn on a mite too soon, like 1000 watts in a hallway that spookily lights up before your finger flips the switch. His closing statement, I mean speech, was delivered well enough, although forced since he tried to fit a 40 minute harangue into a 30 minute slot to make up for Al Sharpton going over his time.
Bringing red meat to the table in front of a crowd that had been force fed a vegetarian diet for three days, the hall devoured every last bloody sinew. "Let Sharpton be Sharpton" must have been the man behind the curtain's call. The Rev proved the formal investiture of Barack Obama as present and future unofficial African-American spokesperson might be what you call your premature. Over the past year Sharpton banked an impressive largesse in the credibility department mainly for his candor which flourished unencumbered by the anchor that ambitions of receiving mail at 1600 Pennsylvania seems to encase other candidates.
But the night belonged to Edwards who proved that although he looks 12, and has been called too happy and cuddly to be a single chicken bone away from the Presidency, this Smurf comes equipped with claws. After his "Two Americas" standard stump sated the heartland pitch, he jumped right into Bushville with his threat to terrorists "we will destroy you." Now it's the Big Kahuna's turn at bat and his assignment is simple: Turn "I, Robot" into "We the People."