“Zombie fop” Terry McAuliffe is running for Governor of Virginia, and since his main talents are fund-raising and fund-shrinking, not necessarily in that order, Smitty doesn’t think he has much of a chance against Ken Cuccinelli.
Of course, I had this bozo’s number back in ought-four, and in a dream sequence no less:
Sunrise on the prairie. I’m awake for once, and I have time to kill, and as the fellow spins around with my breakfast, the little bell in the back of my head emits the faintest hint of a tinkle, reminding me that I shouldn’t have had the large orange juice.
And then it hits me: “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“I’m sure you don’t,” he says, and turns away.
The girl from the checkout counter catches him in mid-turn. “Terry, I can’t read this. Is this the short stack or the full stack? You didn’t write down the price.”
I looked at him again. “Aren’t you Terry McAuliffe?”
“I know I’ve seen you on the news. Terry McAuliffe. Head of the Democratic National Committee all those years. What in the world are you doing slinging hash in Snake’s Navel, Kansas, fercrissake?”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not so loud.”
“It is you, isn’t it?”
“That goddamn John Kerry,” he said. “I worked my ass off to keep him within reach for the whole year, and in the last week he pissed it all away. Didn’t get the electoral vote, didn’t get the popular vote, didn’t get squat. We damn near lost Connecticut. Somebody had to take the blame.”
He didn’t say anything more, and I wasn’t about to ask. Besides, the eggs were runny.
And no, I’m not expecting any invitations to breakfast in Richmond.