Requiem for Hillary Clinton: “Big Girls Don’t Cry!”

Hillary Rodham Clinton had already finished ordering her stylish inaugural gowns for balls and victory celebrations still more than a year away.

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Final specs were in place for a domestic spying network that would immediately sound an alarm on the president's wrist watch whenever a "bimbo" was detected on White House grounds--and alone with Bill Clinton. Urinals throughout the White House were to be ripped out and replaced with Unisex potties, convenient and accessible for and to all. Clearly, Hillary Clinton saw herself as the 44th president of the United States. It was her karma and birth right, an irrevocable promise granted by the gods of femi-nazism. In fact, one half expected to gaze into the sky one night and behold heavenly bodies configuring themselves to read "Hillary Rodham Clinton, 44th President of the United States of America," as if to spam undecided voters. Hillary's ascension to the presidency was nearly as inevitable as death and taxes. And in the minds of many, just as unwelcome. Then came the presidential debate in Philadelphia on October 30. The one in which Senator Clinton was unable to articulate a cogent position on the volatile issue of driver's licenses for illegal aliens. On that night, she sounded more like George W. Bush than the silver-tongued, double-talking weasel to whom she is married. First she was for it, then against, then for, then against, and on and on and on. In the space of two agonizing minutes, Hillary came across as an indecisive and scatter brained political hack. A political novice, rather than a shrewd understudy endowed with invaluable executive experience gained by sleeping with the most powerful man in the world for eight years. Her performance was hardly what one would expect from a "World Class Genius." Or even a "Little Rock Class Genius," for that matter. Things continued to deteriorate for Hillary, leading to a humiliating third-place finish in the Iowa caucus. Then, while campaigning in New Hampshire, Hillary decided that her tactics were simply not closing enough deals (votes). Thus, Hillary decided to play the Sympathy Card. Which goes like this: If you can't beat them, take on the persona of an abused child. Rather than going for the jugular, go for the heart and soft heads so common among liberal voters. Meeting with a group of mostly undecided women voters and with cameras from ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, Fox, and MSNBC on the lookout for even the slightest hint of a tear, Hillary said: "You know, this is very personal for me. It's not just political it's not just public. I see what's happening, and we have to reverse it." In other words, Hillary was not driven to tears as a result of losing Iowa to an inexperienced black man, or because she trails that same man by double digits in New Hampshire. Rather, Hillary's tears were shed for We the People and for America. Unless we woke up, she was saying, we were in danger of not electing Hillary Clinton. Truly a situation worthy of a crying jag, if ever there was one. However, Hillary could learn a lesson from a wildly popular song recorded in the 60s by the Four Seasons. The song, "Big Girls Don't Cry." Get it, Hillary?