St. John's lamentAnd I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.--Revelation 13:1
I've been ruminating the chances of a Hillary Clinton presidential run for quite some time now. Viewed through the prism of John Kerry's 2004 Flight of the Albatross, it seems likely that her star could flame out before 2006. Oh, I don't know.
Hillary's image is a carefully calibrated fascade of national admiration, held together with gaffer's tape and a few of Bill's discarded zippers. One would've thought that the entire country was completely smitten with Rosie O'Donnel's droning pie-hole, too--until ratings plummeted her now defunct magazine and television show through the floor-planks of infamy.
Turned out her big mouth turned off televisions as well as people. And there's something to be said for euphonious dulcet tones--or a voice that doesn't curdle milk at fifty paces. Rumor has it Chelsea's inaugural trip to the terra firma was facilitated by a small window of opportunity called Laryngitis.
So chuck Hillary's Village, and History tomes as qualifying presidential ventures. Anyone can write a book (and for that matter, this column). Sooner or later the country's going to have to contend with that subterranean screech that says "a house fell on my sister." Networks will have to flash poll chimpanzees in order to forge a debate win for her, because that infernal cackle will belie any attempt to hide shades of Marie Antoinette, and have the nation demanding she go back to accosting billy goats from under a bridge.
She may be smart. So what? Put her likability index up to the market forces (and outside the nearly euphoric adulation of Katie Couric) and watch her political stock plummet like Gerald Ford on a set of stairs.