Stephen asks the pertinent question.
Worst YET, Steve. YET.
When we’re talking about Presidentish Joe Biden’s increasing senility, it’s difficult to choose the worst, most embarrassing moment of his time in office.
Okay, I gotta admit: I like that “Presidentish” formulation so much, I’ma gonna be purloining it for my own use. Fair warning.
Like most folks suffering from Alzheimer’s, senile dementia, or maybe the long-term effects of two brain aneurysms, Biden has good moments and bad ones. But the bad ones seem to be becoming more frequent.
Honestly, it seems impossible that we’d ever see a moment more revealing than this one from last week. I’m a fan of it, so to speak, because this particular moment didn’t just reveal Biden’s creeping senescence but also showed the world how our pliant press pretends POTUS is compos mentis.
You know, it’s one thing — not a good thing, mind you, but perhaps a less-bad thing — when the American press hid from the world how feeble FDR had become, particularly during the last two or three years of his life. It’s quite another to pretend that a nuclear-armed POTUS is still capable of even friendly give-and-take (with) the White House Press Corps(e).
Put them all together and it’s like the opposite of a greatest hits collection. But as any record collector can tell you, no greatest hits album is complete without at least one new song to force die-hard fans to buy it. And that’s exactly what I have for you today.
Here’s the Quick & Dirty VodkaPundit Transcript (from one of several YewToob vids emdebbed in the post—M):
[unintelligible, sounds vaguely like “I’m a puff”] Florida’s small business… winner… award winner… of, uh, the, uh, business week winner… [slams mic on lectern] YOU WON.
Who won exactly what is, like the workings of whatever is left of Joe Biden’s mind, a mystery.
Anyone still in doubt about just how much relevance the show-office of US “President” might still retain to the day-to-day machinations of FederalGovCo is hereby cordially referred to the Biden Puppet’s obvious inability to string together three words intelligibly. This, mind, with a giant-print cheat sheet in palsied hand. As I’ve said, at this point the Rutabaga In Thief isn’t even in charge of his own morning bowel movement, much less the central government.