Bill & Hillary Clouseau?

Initially feared and prohibitively favored, the campaign of Hillary Clinton in its death spiral has devolved into Pink Panther-like absurdity.  Originally described as a juggernaut, the terms that most accurately describe Hillary's campaign now are bumbling and incoherent. 

Perhaps when Mrs. Clinton speaks she could adopt the delightful accent of Inspector Clouseau:  "I do not believe the Iranians are developing a nuclear beumb;"  or " I believe global warming is harming the habitat of the minkies."  It may not garner any more votes, but it could relieve some of the tedium that now gives her efforts the depressing aura of a Greek tragedy.

Just when Hillary began to gain a little traction, reports of Norman Hsu and Chinese busboys began springing impromptu media attacks, Kato-like from behind closed campaign doors.  This was followed by increasingly smarmy digs by the presumptive first-Hubby:  "Does your husband bite?  No, but-Zat iz not my husband!"

Twelve short months ago, the media were awe-stricken over the prospect of the Clinton sharks circling the other Democrat nominees.  Now even the mainstream media types are slapping their thighs and foreheads, guffawing at the wacky antics of the Pink Clintons.  One imagines Mark Penn blustering like Chief Inspector Dreyfus, driven insane by the bumbling of his nominee and her sycophants.  This is especially true now that word is out that Penn has lent millions to Hillary's campaign.  How do you like the chances of Penn collecting on that note?

Perhaps what made Inspector Clouseau most captivating was his incredible knack for survival, despite his near total incompetence.  Often it is just dumb luck that rescues Clouseau, as he bends over to tie a shoelace and the assassin's bomb flies over his head.  Perhaps the right wing fantasies of Hillary as master Machiavellian manipulator are wrong, and the Clintons have ducked Whitewater, endless Bimbo eruptions, impeachment, and the failure to apprehend bin Laden out of sheer comic chance. Two words: Sandy Burglar. (Talk about a Pink Panther scene: Berger wandering out of the National Archives with documents protruding from his collar and socks and fly is something even Blake Edwards could not imagine.) 

Now the continuing saga of stumble-bummery along Hillary's campaign trail, from Bill's racist remarks in South Carolina to Hillary's planted questions in Iowa orher attacks on Obama's kindergarten essay or failing to tip the hard working waitress at an Iowa diner, all cry for Pink Panther music in the background.

And most like Clouseau, Hillary is enormously egocentric.  Clouseau sincerely believed he was a great detective, despite his shortcomings.  He was quick to put on an air of savoir faire or elegance immediately after a stumble, regardless of the disaster he had created.  When he was paged or summoned to the tele-pheune he would puff himself up and respond:  "Ah yes, that would be ME."

Peter Sellers always maintained that this egotism was what made Inspector Clouseau appealing: the conflict between his own high self-regard and the obvious disparity with his true abilities and action.

I suspect the Clinton saga will end not unlike a Pink Panther movie, with Bill and Hillary whistling off into the sunset, oblivious to the fact that their party is in shambles and Mark Penn and Howard Dean in straight-jackets being chased by silly men with nets.

A guy can hope, can't he? But is this hope we can believe in?
Initially feared and prohibitively favored, the campaign of Hillary Clinton in its death spiral has devolved into Pink Panther-like absurdity.  Originally described as a juggernaut, the terms that most accurately describe Hillary's campaign now are bumbling and incoherent. 

Perhaps when Mrs. Clinton speaks she could adopt the delightful accent of Inspector Clouseau:  "I do not believe the Iranians are developing a nuclear beumb;"  or " I believe global warming is harming the habitat of the minkies."  It may not garner any more votes, but it could relieve some of the tedium that now gives her efforts the depressing aura of a Greek tragedy.

Just when Hillary began to gain a little traction, reports of Norman Hsu and Chinese busboys began springing impromptu media attacks, Kato-like from behind closed campaign doors.  This was followed by increasingly smarmy digs by the presumptive first-Hubby:  "Does your husband bite?  No, but-Zat iz not my husband!"

Twelve short months ago, the media were awe-stricken over the prospect of the Clinton sharks circling the other Democrat nominees.  Now even the mainstream media types are slapping their thighs and foreheads, guffawing at the wacky antics of the Pink Clintons.  One imagines Mark Penn blustering like Chief Inspector Dreyfus, driven insane by the bumbling of his nominee and her sycophants.  This is especially true now that word is out that Penn has lent millions to Hillary's campaign.  How do you like the chances of Penn collecting on that note?

Perhaps what made Inspector Clouseau most captivating was his incredible knack for survival, despite his near total incompetence.  Often it is just dumb luck that rescues Clouseau, as he bends over to tie a shoelace and the assassin's bomb flies over his head.  Perhaps the right wing fantasies of Hillary as master Machiavellian manipulator are wrong, and the Clintons have ducked Whitewater, endless Bimbo eruptions, impeachment, and the failure to apprehend bin Laden out of sheer comic chance. Two words: Sandy Burglar. (Talk about a Pink Panther scene: Berger wandering out of the National Archives with documents protruding from his collar and socks and fly is something even Blake Edwards could not imagine.) 

Now the continuing saga of stumble-bummery along Hillary's campaign trail, from Bill's racist remarks in South Carolina to Hillary's planted questions in Iowa orher attacks on Obama's kindergarten essay or failing to tip the hard working waitress at an Iowa diner, all cry for Pink Panther music in the background.

And most like Clouseau, Hillary is enormously egocentric.  Clouseau sincerely believed he was a great detective, despite his shortcomings.  He was quick to put on an air of savoir faire or elegance immediately after a stumble, regardless of the disaster he had created.  When he was paged or summoned to the tele-pheune he would puff himself up and respond:  "Ah yes, that would be ME."

Peter Sellers always maintained that this egotism was what made Inspector Clouseau appealing: the conflict between his own high self-regard and the obvious disparity with his true abilities and action.

I suspect the Clinton saga will end not unlike a Pink Panther movie, with Bill and Hillary whistling off into the sunset, oblivious to the fact that their party is in shambles and Mark Penn and Howard Dean in straight-jackets being chased by silly men with nets.

A guy can hope, can't he? But is this hope we can believe in?