Texas Comptroller of Dichotomic Accounts Carole Keeton Strayhorn is working her way through the three stages of political campaign implosion that occur in all greviously ill-conceived electoral endeavors.

Stage One is the candidate's friends quietly coming to them and telling them that things are very much amiss, and either advising them to back out, change out (i.e. to a new Party, or none at all), or bidding them a fond and swift adieu as they abandon the sinking ship.

Stage Two is the candidate, in an act of quiet (as they can possibly manage; it rarely works out to be nearly as noiseless as they would have hoped) desperation, starts actually testing the waters of said recommendations; because they too see the writing on the wall, and political hubris is always such that they will perform every possible exorcism at their disposal before they finally give up the electoral ghost.

Stage Three is when the Media, the kings and queens of hindsight and me-too-ism, begin assembling their dogpile conga line to each in turn take their shot at shoving south the head of the drowning candidate. This is particularly ugly, brutal and final when the column to write said demise columns forms to finish off an unquestioned Friend of the Press (and it is a queryless assertion that the Media had a decided rooting interest in the Madame Comptroller Express).

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have reached said Stage Three, and it is hardly pretty ("What is your Delta Chi nickname, Madame Comptroller?").

Monsieur McNeely is as tremendous an un-Fan of the incumbent Madame Comptroller is seeking to unseat, Governor Rick Perry, as, well, everyone else with a pen in the Austin Press Corps. It brings him no pleasure, and is in fact probably excruciatingly painful, to write this bit of capitulatory negligence, but the facts on the ground are no longer ignorable, and the tea leaves are at this point written in three hundred and thirty-five languages, and Braille.

Enjoying the (Recently Fleeting) Solitude

Those of the Media, with their decided disdain for the eminently reelectable Governor, will have, and have, waited until the last possible minute to acknowledge this obviousness, not wanting to admit to anyone, including themselves, that their own personal bete noir is on the way to effortless reup.

But more important even than their pronounced contemn for the Governor is their perpetual effort to portray themselves as retroactively foresightful. Hence their soon to occur jumping on the Assail Strayhorn Bandwagon. Watch as they all tormentedly fall in line behind the wincing McNeely.

At least Le Monsieur can lay claim to being the first one on board (besides us, of course; we have been alone aboard for so long, and sincerely enjoyed the seclusion, especially when considering the company we will now be keeping).