An Open Letter to Newt Gingrich
You know, I really hope that you at least make it to New Hampshire in the upcoming 2012 GOP primary race. That is, if you can ever untangle the byzantine snarl of seedy, overlapping financial gimmes you’ve got going and actually declare yourself as a candidate.
It will be so worth it to smart-asses like me to watch you reach your chubby little mitts out to grab at that big brass ring (the biggest!), your dream of someday being “President Gingrich”. (ed: Hrk. Gosh, it kind of makes you sick just to even think those two words together, doesn’t it?)
Because Newt, this is what I love about you. You are the kind of guy my old boss Diana at the soul food restaurant would describe as having, “‘PREMATURE’ written all over him.” In fact, I believe that young Callista the Intern made this very calculation all those years ago, through the haze of sloe gin fizzes at some dim DC dive bar (also known as your Congressional office suite). She looked at you there, you sweaty, overeager little glob of Crisco, and she said, “Okay, I’ll suck it. I’ll get to wear a big rock on my finger and drive a Mercedes coupe. I’ll shop at Barney’s and Saks. No matter how dismal in the sack this mouthy little yard gnome is, it surely can’t last very long.”
(That’s right, Mrs. Gingrich the Third, or is it Fourth. You’ve got the right idea. Just close your eyes and think of Neiman’s.)
It is ever your pattern, Newt. You start to get a little attention and you just get so excited that you can’t stand it and you overshoot. “Let’s shut down the Federal Government!”—remember that old wheeze? Even those frothing Tea-tards of the 2011 Republican House keep spitting out compromises because they have the specter of your disgrace hanging in the back of their tiny, aggrieved little minds.
Or more recently when you got your Irish up and went on the warpath for Sonia Sotomayor’s scalp. You got to go back on TeeVee and they put the makeup on you and turned on the lights and in all the excitement, you went and called that nice, seemingly benign lady a racist.
Because see, Newt, that was the whole point. All the Fox News droogs were supposed to dance around that idea and imply and insinuate and never, ever, ever come right out and say it. But out there under the lights, on the sound stage, your face got all hot and you felt all dizzy and high and invincible again, didn’t you? Just for a second you thought you could party like it was 1995.
And then they jerked you out of sight again for a while. It was for your own good really. I believe that it was the moment that all but handed Justice Sotomayor her seat, when you and all the other bellowing Hoarse Men of the Apocalypse stood revealed for the bullying jackholes that you are. Uncle Newt drank a whole Foster’s oilcan on top of his afternoon Klonopin and threw up in the hot tub and ruined it for everyone. Again.
But now, of course, you are back. And even that half-cracked old profiteer Roger Ailes knows you’re going to blow it, hastily cutting his ties with both you and Rick “Jo-Jo the Dog Faced Boy” Santorum (He walks! He talks! He wriggles on his belly like a reptile!). This is the chairman of the same Fox News that donated more than a million dollars last year to Republican gubernatorial candidates, but oh, no, we can’t have Newt on the payroll if he’s running for president. That would be partisan!
Ailes still has his prize heifer Sarah on board to the tune of a million dollars a year. And the Huckabeast still has his sad little show in spite of the fact that he’s been running around foaming at the mouth like an Andy Griffith character on the nasty end of a six day crack binge.
No, Little Newtie, it’s because they know that before you even get two lengths out of the gate, you’re going to detonate. And they don’t want it to splatter on their clean, all-white walls.
You’re like a yappy little Pomeranian that gets so overexcited at the first sign of company that it tinkles all over the parquet floor. Or this sad guy named Scott who I dated in college, who would get so worked up that he’d come just from putting on the condom.
You’ve got to pace yourself, Li’l Buddy. We need you—no, I need you in this race. I might even have to go out and vote for you in the primaries myself, god forbid. There’s precious little to laugh at right now. And who else besides the White Witch of the North is going to be such a bottomless well of side-slapping free material? That J.C. Penney’s underwear model Mitt Romney? I do not think he will!
Take care of yourself.