About four years ago, I had a belly laugh. It was the first time a candidate for president made me crack up. The moment belonged to Fred Thompson on the occasion of him putting his foot in the butt of Michael Moore on health care. It was practically Churchillian in flavor. Unfortunately Thompson had none of Churchill's luck or longevity and fell over.
It was not the first time I had marked my sentiments for the time when America would tire of slick politicians and think about somebody with a moustache. As sick as I get of dainty utopians and their manicured dreams, I knew some kind of catastrophe would be necessary for Americans to finally elect somebody with real working class credentials. When they elected Obama, I could only hope his disaster would show Americans finally to get rid of slick, fast-talking, Ivy League, pontificators. I want an America confident enough in itself to vote for a Mike Ditka instead of some Armani role-model. I want an American president who drinks Jack Daniels.
This is an advertisement that I thought I'd never see in my lifetime. Non-slick. Non-corny. Maybe America has learned its lesson. This will be a lightning strike across the land. I think it could very well make Herman Cain the inheritor of Sarah Palin's mob, and another little bit of my heart.