Not long ago I wrote on this blog that “Rick Perry looks more like a farm animal than a human being. He appears to be the result of an experiment that sought to cross a man with a steer. I’d say the experiment failed. For an obvious side-effect of this Island of Dr. Moreau monkeying with nature is that Perry was born without a brain. He is like that episode of Star Trek where Spock’s brain was lifted entirely out of his body. Dan Quayle was dim, so was George II; Perry is simply dumb. Never have I seen a man so dumb on the national political stage. What do people in other countries think, when they see this cow-man treated like an actual serious person? This is why it is Wrong to view such things [as the Republican presidential debates] without opiates.”
I would now like to retract these words. Because Rick Perry does not, in truth, look like a cross between a man and a steer.
Instead, he seems, and more precisely, like a cross between a man, and a dirt clod.
Please, as an example, observe there the photos, reproduced there to the left.
I have been around a lot of humans, and animals, in my life. But never have I encountered a look as dumb as dirt, so devoid of sentience, in any creature’s eyes, as I perceive here in the orbs of Rick Perry, attempting to explain, reading off a postcard upside down, the details of his “tax plan.”
Now, I have lived through Richard Nixon. I have lived through Ronald Reagan. I have lived through Dan Quayle. I have lived through George II. I have lived through Sarah Palin. But I refuse, absolutely, to live through Rick Perry.
Even before Perry started reading his gibberish upside down, he appeared at a campaign event in New Hampshire, where he took the stage so terminally twisted on some savage combo of alcohol and pills, that no one in the national press crops was at all prepared to handle it. And so the news was instead spread by irreverent video-chuckers on YouTube.
Perry and his people later denied that he was in this speech in any way tattered and torn. Which, if they are to be believed, means that the man shown below is the Real Deal:
As a woman from Dallas, who has been enduring Perry for years, put it: “after our governor’s giddy, sweaty, frenzied appearance in New Hampshire, people have started to notice that Perry loves maple syrup a little too much—and that he appears to be more of a caricature of a candidate than a legitimate contender.”
But—ye gods—Perry is hardly the only caricature in the GOoPer race.
Because this week we learn that Herman Cain—the man who says he should be president because he once made a pizza—has a wee-wee that, when liquored, seeks to stray from the confines of his wife.
Battered by news of his boner’s bodaciousness, Cain proceeded to chunder the claim that the campaign of the dirt-clod—Perry—leaked word of his inability to keep his willie within his wife.
Perry’s people immediately countered by claiming that it was in truth Captain Underpants—Mitt Romney—who had gone padding to the press with the stories of Cain’s steaming cod.
These people have set up a circular firing squad. They are shooting each other in public. They are causing the rest of the world to demand that no GOoPers be allowed to touch down upon the shores of any place else, ever, for any reason.
They are making us see the eternal wisdom of Jerry Lee Lewis, when faced with such beings: