Hillary Clinton’s second inevitable triumphal march to the Democratic nomination is even more depressing than her first one. At least eight years ago there was an ascendant star, a rare political phenom, with a smooth manner and glitzy style. Once Obama got traction there really was no way to stop him. To paraphrase one of his own gnomic gems: he was the one everyone was waiting for.
This time it is so different. This time Hillary may finally get the nomination — after a life in politics, cashing in on a generation or two of IOUs, deploying her army of gender warriors, leaning on her cohorts in the liberal press, dusting off Bill and sending him out to rouse or agitate the dwindling number of true believers. She has every possible means of campaign support, from the fear she inspires among her allies, to the Clinton hold on much of the party, to some of the most wicked campaign doctors in the business, all fused and fired by her own ardent, fever-ridden ambition and preternatural sense of pure entitlement. Remember:
IT IS HER TURN!
But with all that, and with the lock on the numbers she strong-boxed from the outset — those mummified super delegates — she is barely crawling her way to the convention, being bested in primary after primary, by one of the most unlikely, ungainly, unhip and unscripted candidates in a presidential election ever: the awesome socialist septuagenarian Bernie Sanders.
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