You know, I didn't have to look hard to find a picture of Charlie Gibson looking like a twat. I would imagine it has something to do with the incontrovertible fact that he is in indeed a huge, dirty, 18th-century, gritty sore filled twat. Who scowls.
And what better way to put this trait on display than to do it during a Primary debate. And to out-prick George Stephanopoulos takes some doing. It was nice, however, to see that the impishly charming former Clinton White House staffer was capable of speaking without a hand up his ass. I'm not implying that he's into that sort of behavior, simply stating that he looks like a puppet.
I would like to get into the nuts and bolts of what a simpering weasel's pee-hole Gibson is by giving specifics from his performance this evening, but Wonkette's coverage of the debate is excellent and I keep getting sad that we're still talking about flag lapel pins. When was the last time you saw someone wearing a pin and considered them to be stable? If pins conferred any kind of culturally significant status other than moving the weird Jennifer Aniston/Guy Who Played Nixon From Band of Brothers romantic subplot in "Office Space", the Newbury Comics wouldn't be staffed completely by virgins.
I will mention two things I noticed about Charlie before the fistful of sleeping pills I just took starts to take effect so I can sleep through the night without imagining Hill's snaggle toof (left front incisor):
- Charlie is not a grown man's name. Maybe it's supposed to sound roguish and playful, but he's neither of those things. He's the world's richest "just folk" everyman. Any claims to to a secret hipness is gross. Like referring to McCain as a DILF. Plus, he probably smells like finished basement and fastidiously tidy Dodge Caravan. Imagine waking up to that smell, fellas!
- He kept looking over his spectacles as if to admonish the candidates when they wouldn't waffle on his insanely worded "this is definitely the wrong answer on the SAT because it is so insanely absolute" questions. I hate that. Quit acting so smug, Charlie. The single qualification that you posses that allows you to be pissed about the Capital Gains tax while I have separate jars for pennies (be patient!) and quarters (splurge - eat today!) is that you can hold a mug and read off of a teleprompter at the same time.