In which Barack Obama says, “om nom nom nom foot.”

You go into these small towns in Pennsylvania and, like a lot of small towns in the Midwest, the jobs have been gone now for 25 years and nothing’s replaced them…And they fell through the Clinton Administration, and the Bush Administration, and each successive administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna regenerate and they have not. And it’s not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.

These are the words of Barack Obama, at a supposedly-private fundraiser out in San Francisco a few days ago. No press were supposed to be there, but a blogger from–be still my conservative heart–the Huffington Post got in there and recorded the speech. Always nice to see a little blue-on-blue damage this time of year.

Trust me, nobody was happier to see them turn up in the blogosphere than Hillary Clinton. Hillary’s shot herself in the foot this campaign, a lot. But you know she’s got to be happy to see the Obamessiah cover both feet with A-1 Steak Sauce, stick them in his mouth, chow down on some loafer tartar, then blow both the sumbitches off with a double-barreled load of #00 buckshot.

Yes, Barack, maybe your handlers forgot to tell you that Pennsylvania is basically Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and a few hundred miles of Alabama-with-snow in between. Pennsylvania is–no offense, Keystoners–just as rural and occasionally rednecky a state as anyplace you’ll find in the South. And I don’t mean that as an insult, because I’m a product of the finest redneck Caucasian recyclables Amherst County, Virginia ever had to offer. It’s just a fact. You get outside the big metro areas, and Pennsylvania small-town folks aren’t a whole lot different from Virginia small-town folks or Iowa small-town folks or Montana small-town folks. (Or even Texas small-town folks, although they might not admit it, because they’re Texans.)

They own pickup trucks with gun racks, Dale Jr. license-plate covers, and “Terrorist Hunting Permit” bumper stickers. They’re people who troop out in the woods every fall, decked out in blaze orange and smelling of synthetic deer piss, to get some venison for the family and maybe a nice trophy for the wall and enjoy the beauty of the outdoors while doing it. Folks whose idea of haute cuisine is a meat-and-three, and whose wine of choice is taken at Communion on Sundays. Men who’ve worked with their hands for years, and now suddenly realize that they can’t get a $14-an-hour job framing houses because Pedro will do it for $6.50 an hour under the table. Families with a nineteen-year-old son somewhere in Anbar Province or the Godforsaken wastes of Afghanistan, praying every night that tomorrow isn’t the day he crosses paths with an IED.

Y’know, Barack. Americans.

I already knew there was a God, but other people may be figuring it out from looking at the latest Pennsylvania polling results. One week ago, Obama and Clinton were in a dead heat in Pennsylvania, 45-45; this after Hillary’s Tuzlagate, of course. Now, Obama is down a full twenty points, 57-37. Sure looks to me like Tiger Obama just sliced the hell out of his tee shot on the 16th and put it in the creek. That four-shot lead with three holes to go doesn’t look so impregnable anymore.

Of course, far be it from an experienced politician like Hillary to miss an opportunity. So after Obama’s remarks made it to air, we got to see the unintentionally hilarious spectacle of Hillary doing a shot of Crown Royal and slamming beers with the locals at an Indiana bar. Because let me tell ya, when I think of relaxing after a hard week at the factory, I think about hitting the local establishment and trading shots with 60-year-old women in impeccably-tailored pantsuits…and their Secret Service details.

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