RE: Joe's prognostication vis-a-vis mid-term elections.
Joe tells dimwit activists and the select morons at Nancy Pelosi's fundraiser not to worry; the democrats (small 'd' intentional) will handily beat the snot out of those republicans (small 'r' intentional) and keep control of the government, because President Obambi ain't done giving us all the full measure of ass rape he has planned for us, a good old-fashioned buggering, the likes of which Joe and his cronies believe, deep in their black little hearts, we're all just clamoring for.
When I read that (paraphrased) statement, I finally remembered just who...more like just what...Joe Biden reminds me of.
I remembered when I was a child, and my uncle owned an Irish Setter. She was a great dog; cute as hell, playful, affectionate, gentle, loyal. She was an over-grown puppy, always ready and eager to play, with this great, big, clumsy sort of gait. Plenty of energy, and at the first sign of children, the dog would jump up and down (usually falling to the floor at least once in the process), running around in circles, her tail wagging and her tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth, usually with a string of drool hanging off of it. She would then rush off across the house to get her favorite toy, which invariably, was a tennis ball.
This was the dog's way of saying "Hey, spend several hours tossing this piece of shit so that I can chase it, crash into all the furniture, bang my head a few times on the coffee table, and bring it back to ya, okay?"
And, of course, we did. We were kids, and the sight of a big, gawky dog pouncing left,right and sideways and running head-first into the Lay-Z-Boy was great fun. We'd laugh for hours. Eventually, however, the game would take a cruel turn -- we'd get bored after a bit, and children can often be cruel without meaning to be so -- and the rules of the game would change.
We'd start psyching the dog out, and only pretend to toss the tennis ball. We'd make the throwing motion, the dog would follow with eager eyes, but the ball would never be released and would instead be quickly buried in an armpit; a bit of sleight-of-hand that dog fell for every time. The dog would then dutifully run from pillar-to-post, sniffing here and there, sticking her nose under the sofa, digging behind the couch, running from room-to-room in search of a tennis ball that she was never going to find.
She was diligent. She was determined. She would search for that stupid ball for hours, single-minded. You could not fault her effort, nor her work ethic. She would literally spend the rest of the day searching high-and-low for that tennis ball until some other thought pushed it right out of her head, like feeding time, or the whimper in front of the door that meant "Take me out: I have to pop a squat".
Once, I played that trick on that dog, and I swear; she went to sleep that evening, and the first thing the following morning, she was still looking for that tennis ball. Eventually, keeping the tennis ball away from the dog lost it's lustre, too, and became needlessly mean, so we'd give in and let her have it again. And she'd lie right there in front of you , gnawing at the tennis ball as if it were a T-bone -- the Huntress Enjoying Her Kill --and we'd pet her and tell her she was a good girl ,and give her a nice belly-rub.
I loved that dog, and I miss her (Seana finally succumbed to old age one day. She just lay down one evening and never get up again).
Joe reminds me of Seana; you can't doubt his earnestness and eagerness to please. He's determined, even to the point of being preoccupied by his single thought, oblivious to anything other than finding that tennis ball (or, in this case, the cause of rallying the troops on behalf of an Administration that half the people in the country disapprove of strongly, while the other half is deeply disappointed in it).
Joe has the same qualities as Seana: in his own way, he's a lovable doofus, too, who sometimes just doesn't realize that his quest is Quixotic, and that we're all having a good laugh at his expense. The only difference, I'd say, is that Joe probably doesn't whimper at the front door when he has to take a dump. He doesn't look housebroken to me.
But you can almost picture him doing so.