The Cipher At the Center

A week ago, in the aftermath of the sickening murders of Christopher Stevens and three others in Libya, Barack Obama came off in bolder relief than ever as the lightweight, America-stomping sourpuss that he really is.  Obama couldn't be bothered finding some grownups to hunker down with and deal with a crisis he helped make.  Instead, he ran away to Vegas, and his umpteenth fundraiser.  Mitt Romney showed him up, when he stepped up to the mics to fill the yawning vacuum -- of adulthood, morals, sobriety, and wisdom -- which any American but the most pie-faced Obamadroid knows festers inside this soulless political golem.

Romney rose to the occasion after sadistic killings by America's Islamojihadist enemies.  This, mind you, of an ambassador, a president's personal envoy.  Those atrocities would have been a sure casus belli to any leader not named Obama.  Romney acquitted himself well by trying the mantle of the presidency on for size, in full public view.  It was a good fit, even if it still needs some tailoring.  Naturally, the left sniped at him for even daring to speak up.  No matter.  He pointedly made the case for American pride, strength and resolve, where heretofore since earliest 2009 Obama has exuded, like some noxious invasive plant oozing venomous sap, only a craven and devious spite. 

Hiding in the wearying static of Obama's campaign calumnies, its manufactured crises, his creepy stink-bomb friends, and his shrill hubris, is this irony:  for the past four years, Obama has been blaming the president who preceded him.  But for the past week, he has taken to blaming the president who is about succeed him.

That leaves little "there" there, just Obama in a floating bubble of never-accountability.  And it shows once again that at the core of his so-called administration lurks only the black hole of nothingness often to be found at the center of both roiling politics and swirling galaxies.  Yet Obama just keeps dissing and talking.  Shakespeare long ago prefigured such a fraud:  a strutting, fretting idiot; his furious tale signifying nothing; soon to be heard no more.

Richard Kantro may be reached at