Politico's Clinton Campaign Commercial

Rick Moran
This is really rancid. I mean, if the writer of this piece in Politico today, Roger Simon, got any gushier about how marvelous Bill Clinton is, he would have to be registered as an offshore oil well:

Looking into Bill Clinton’s eyes is like falling into a swimming pool.

His eyes are deep and blue and comforting and, as person after person will tell you, when his eyes lock onto yours, you feel like you are the only other person in the world.

Margarida Perreira, 48, of Manchester, N.H., can stand it no longer.

“Can I give you a kiss?” she asks him.

“Sure you can,” he says.

She hugs him fiercely.
Perhaps Politico should be supplying free barf bags with their subscriptions:
Whenever there are groups of children, Clinton bends down so their parents can get a picture of them with the former president. Whenever he sees people in wheelchairs who cannot get through the crowd to him, Clinton moves through the crowd to them.

Many people are too nervous or excited to initiate a conversation, but they soon learn that is not necessary.

“Where are you from?” Clinton asks a woman.

“Cologne,” she replies.

It is like turning on a switch.

“Beautiful town,” he says. “I have been there many times. The first time was December 1969. I crossed the Rhine at midnight and walked up the hill to the cathedral. It was breathtaking. You must be so proud of it.”

She smiles and nods.
Rarely have I come across such a stomach turning, sickly sweet example of unabashed boosterism. Simon is so far gone with Clinton worship that one expects him to start genuflecting in adoration. 

I almost feel like taking a shower after reading that piece. It's like being sprayed with cotton candy. It has certainly spoiled my appetite for lunch.

Obviously, I've already had dessert.
  
This is really rancid. I mean, if the writer of this piece in Politico today, Roger Simon, got any gushier about how marvelous Bill Clinton is, he would have to be registered as an offshore oil well:

Looking into Bill Clinton’s eyes is like falling into a swimming pool.

His eyes are deep and blue and comforting and, as person after person will tell you, when his eyes lock onto yours, you feel like you are the only other person in the world.

Margarida Perreira, 48, of Manchester, N.H., can stand it no longer.

“Can I give you a kiss?” she asks him.

“Sure you can,” he says.

She hugs him fiercely.
Perhaps Politico should be supplying free barf bags with their subscriptions:
Whenever there are groups of children, Clinton bends down so their parents can get a picture of them with the former president. Whenever he sees people in wheelchairs who cannot get through the crowd to him, Clinton moves through the crowd to them.

Many people are too nervous or excited to initiate a conversation, but they soon learn that is not necessary.

“Where are you from?” Clinton asks a woman.

“Cologne,” she replies.

It is like turning on a switch.

“Beautiful town,” he says. “I have been there many times. The first time was December 1969. I crossed the Rhine at midnight and walked up the hill to the cathedral. It was breathtaking. You must be so proud of it.”

She smiles and nods.
Rarely have I come across such a stomach turning, sickly sweet example of unabashed boosterism. Simon is so far gone with Clinton worship that one expects him to start genuflecting in adoration. 

I almost feel like taking a shower after reading that piece. It's like being sprayed with cotton candy. It has certainly spoiled my appetite for lunch.

Obviously, I've already had dessert.