Observing Mayor I Love Me in recent days as he crawled, warily, along the ledge of the Occupy L.A. movement, hoping desperately not to be noticed, I was struck by how closely his Ain’t My Fault style parallels Swish Obama’s manner of almost governing.
It just came to me — both of these tin willies almost govern. Neither has a firm grip on his executive chair, if both could only find the darned furniture.
Lazing about is their main, and so far only identifiable, talent.
They spend their days out of the office — traveling, my dear — eluding responsibility, for two reasons: They are not sure what they are supposed to do, and when duty becomes evident, the chance of failure is too risky to be associated with it.
You Tell ‘Em, Clarkie
Clark Gable has been more in evidence during the right-week life of the Occupy movement than Mayor I Love Me.
Both “leaders’” principal deficit is a gaping lack of courage. Check the next time you see them: There is a gaping hole the size of Texas, or their egos, where their hearts should be.
Mayor Me’s quandary was that he broadly agreed with the rancid revelers but he couldn’t say so because he would outrage crucial chunks of his base — damaging only if he is to have a political future after vacating City Hall.
My grandmother used to refer to burly men as “fleshy,” and that reminds me of Mayor Me’s mental toolbox — his offer of free office space and free farmland for this sludge suggests he would be more comfortable in a rubber room.
After eight weeks of standing around with a banana in his left ear and a stale turnip up his nose, this unbright star of liberalism finally evicted the smelly dolts last night, 48 hours after his jelly deadline.
Hurray for Our Side
All Los Angeles left-wingers who have been heard from since the first of October are in bed, philosophically, with the dirty, entitled dolts.
Mayor Me told the Los Angeles Titanic, by golly jingles, he would have taken a stand sooner except —
“It became clear early that the city would not be able to negotiate an end to the demonstration because ‘the process for them to reach an agreement made it impossible.’ At Occupy L.A., decisions are made by 100 percent consensus at a nightly general assembly.”
Imagine if 10 criminals parked on your front lawn, using it as a bathroom-restaurant-bedroom-meeting room-play area — and then 10 could not unanimously agree when they would leave. So you would walk bac into the house and say, softly, to your spouse, “Darn. I am stumped, Buford.”
Finally, after months of cerebral bingo, Mayor Me hit on a slick excuse. He discovered around Thanksgiving that children were embedded among the sludge.
You and I would react as any normal person would. We fainted. Mayor Me did, too. Revived, the little Mayor said, “We must shut them down. We will give them a deadline, and by darn, let’s hope they agree with us.”
Bold and courageous as an icy corpse fished from the depths, meet our Mayor I Love Me.
The other nationally disgraceful work-evader, Swishy O., was Mayor Me’s role model. He has participated in fewer negotiations in the last three years than Mad Michelle. This faux “scholar” does not know what a normal President does on a working day.
So the narcissist travels and honors himself. Since April, Swishy has starred in 75 fundraisers. Raise your hands if you have a job and have been able to do anything 75 times since April outside of showering, sleeping and eating.
