Political Theater, Grand Guignol-style

The very first thing Michele Bachmann does upon returning home to visit the folks is bound up the stairs to reminisce in the lovingly preserved bedroom of her childhood:

Explains a lot, doesn’t it?

Just joshing!  She was touring a meat packing plant in Iowa, which may be the least of the indignities she will have to endure (if Fortune smiles) in her doomed quest for the presidency.  What the hell is it with Iowa and Republican candidates, anyway?  A scant six weeks ago, Bachmann (along with nearly everyone else, apparently) was forced to consume comically phallic prolefeed before a leering, snickering world, and now we find her wandering through a forest of mutilated cow carcasses wearing a butcher’s smock and a fantastically incongruous smile.  Is this any way to choose a leader, even one as manifestly goose-honking insane as Michele Bachmann?

I always supposed that right-wing sadism was theoretically boundless, but Jesus – I never thought they’d inflict it on their standard-bearers.

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