But, folks, she's "blessed." Her whole family is blessed. "We're blessed." Just read her novel, she says, and you get the truth and see that her family is "blessed." Yes, just ask her kid with Down syndrome about being blessed, and I'm sure you'll get a goofy grin (at least he has a good reason for it). He's been blessed with little or no introspection capability, little or no conscious control of complex action, little or no ability to plan for the future, little or no capacity for judgment -- in other words, little or none of what we know makes us human, sort of like liberals.
But, those around him are "blessed" to have him. Their god has particularly honored them with a retarded child to help them understand the importance of not being retarded.
The mystic mind is a fascinating and macabre thing of wonder. A vice presidential candidate for the most powerful nation the world has known thinks that her life is guided by ET, without the cute big eyes and the long fingers. The dude in the sky with a big cigar, a galactic easy chair and a big fucking wide screen TV for Monday Night Football is not just paying attention to her squealing, whining, soporificating and nasalising, but has anointed her, blessed her -- even above the football players pointing toward the easy chair in thanks for a nice pass. "No prob," the god says. "I wasn't too busy allowing a million rapes to occur during the game so that a million families could be blessed with knowing how good it feels to NOT be the ones raped."
The toxic mistress with a big do had better be glad that there is no proper heaven. Otherwise, Thomas Paine would let loose of a thunderbolt, and she would be a crispy cunt on the speaking-tour dais.
Then we'd all be blessed.