You’d think there would be a cheaper and more dignified way to kiss Barack Obama’s ass. Like, say, actually doing so.

Associated Press:

Comedian Stephen Colbert is offering to pay half a million dollars to help subsidize South Carolina’s first-in-the-South GOP presidential primary, as state officials struggle to pay for it, but there’s doubt whether it would even be legal.

The Charleston native wrote in an op-ed Thursday in The State newspaper in Columbia that Colbert Super PAC — a type of political action committee that allows him to raise unlimited amounts of money from corporations, unions and individuals — will bridge the gap after state Republicans refused to contribute anything above $180,000 collected in candidates’ filing fees.

The state Election Commission, which administers South Carolina’s voting, has said it has $1 million on hand for the primary but is short of the total $1.5 million price tag. Spokesman Chris Whitmire says the Commission has notified budget officials the state may need to seek permission to run a deficit to fund the primary.

Colbert wrote that he offered make up that $500,000 funding gap after state Republicans ultimately turned down his proposal to pay them $400,000 if they’d name the contest after him. Party officials have confirmed meeting with Colbert earlier this year to discuss a deal that would have renamed the balloting “The Colbert Super PAC South Carolina Republican Primary” in exchange for a check from the comedian.

Colbert, who plays a mock conservative pundit on his Comedy Central TV show “The Colbert Report,” says he also wanted to put a question about “corporate personhood” on the January ballot. He seized on the issue after a U.S. Supreme Court ruling eased restrictions on campaign spending by corporations.

The only crowd Colbert is playing to is Obama’s MSM Palace Guards, who are obviously lapping it up like the lap dogs they are, but out here in the real world we’re all just scratching our heads.

CHAPTER ONE

Saturday, February 23, 1861

When Lorenzo Smith heard the chugging of the train, he felt for the revolver at his side. His fingers met its smooth handle, hidden beneath his black coat. Then he found the short barrel and the trigger below. Smith had reached for it a dozen times in the last hour, but he wanted to be certain that the gun was still there. It will make me a hero, he thought. It will change history.

Listening for the rumble of the train had been difficult. A loud mass of people waited for its arrival at Calvert Street Station. Smith did not know how many were there, but they must have numbered in the thousands. The noisy throng spilled from the open-ended depot onto Calvert and Franklin Streets. Inside the station, where Smith stood, shouts bounced off the walls and ceiling. This place of tearful departures and happy reunions had become a hotbed of agitation.

The train’s steam whistle pierced the din of the crowd. The engine would pull into Baltimore on schedule, at half past noon. Heads bobbed for a view. Smith struggled to keep his position near the track. He had picked it two hours earlier, when the flood of people was just a trickle. He was not sure precisely where the train would stop, but he thought he had made a good guess about where the last car might come to a halt. He wanted to be within striking distance.

As the locomotive’s big chimney came into view, a man standing next to Smith bellowed, “Here he comes! Here comes the Black Republican!” A roar of jeers and insults filled the station. Smith craned his neck. He saw the engine’s massive oil lamp mounted on top of the smoke box. It gazed forward like the unblinking eye of a mechanical Cyclops. Behind it were the cab, the coal tender, and a line of cars. Flags and streamers covered them all. The whole train glistened from a recent cleaning. At the rear, Smith spotted a car painted in orange and black. He reached into his coat another time and tapped the gun. Just making sure.

For the last ten days, the train carrying Abraham Lincoln on his inaugural journey from Springfield, Illinois, to Washington, D.C., had taken the president-elect through six northern states–all populated by the abolitionists who had voted him into office. Applause greeted him at almost every stop. But on this morning, as Lincoln’s train turned south into Maryland, it had entered slaveholding territory for the first time. Baltimore was the only city on the trip that had not extended a formal welcome to the incoming president–an obvious snub that pleased Smith when he thought of it.

Smith scanned the crowd and saw several men wearing hats with blue-ribbon cockades. This was the fashion among Baltimore’s secessionist set. Each cockade had a button in its center displaying the palmetto tree, the symbol of South Carolina. That state had quit the Union in December, before any of the others. Many Marylanders now wanted to join the growing Confederacy. The moment Lincoln pulled into the depot, the members of the mob would let him know that he did not have their support. They did not even respect him. In fact, they hated him.

Rumors had circulated for weeks that Lincoln would not be safe when he reached Baltimore. But the president-elect had no choice about the visit. The only rail route into Washington from the north required going through Baltimore. Lincoln had to stop and switch to the Baltimore & Ohio Rail Road line at another station more than a mile away. That meant the presidential party would have to make a slow transit from one depot to the other, surrounded the whole way by an angry swarm. Lincoln was supposed to catch a three o’clock departure for Washington, where he would arrive about an hour and a half later.

Smith could not keep from grinning. He could hardly have asked for a better opportunity than the one handed to him here and now. He was about to become a hero–the hero of a new nation. He had planned for this moment from the day he heard Lincoln would pass through his city. He had visited the depot to see where the trains stopped along the platform. He had walked the route Lincoln would take to the other rail line, checking alleys and side streets for the best escape routes. He had studied a picture of Lincoln that had appeared in a magazine. When he learned that the president-elect had grown a beard, he drew whiskers on the picture and studied it more. Smith had cleaned his revolver over and over, trying to keep it in perfect condition. He had tried on his entire wardrobe, testing the gun in trouser pockets, through belts, and in his coat. He bought himself a new pair of shoes and broke them in.

They felt good on his feet as Lincoln’s train crawled into the station. The shouting grew louder and louder. The engine rolled past Smith slowly, from right to left. His eyes met the conductor’s for a moment. The man was shaking his head from side to side. Smith wondered what it meant, but not for long–there was too much going on. The cars kept moving by him. The presidential car in back crept closer. He could see the silhouettes of a few heads through its windows. A fellow up the platform from Smith began to smack the car’s exterior with his cane, but it rolled out of his reach a moment later.

Then the train hissed to a halt, with the presidential car directly in front of Smith. His meticulous planning had paid off. Smith jumped onto the car’s metal steps. His feet clanged against them as he thrust himself forward and up. He heard men rushing behind him. At the door into Lincoln’s car, Smith hesitated. He quickly surveyed the depot from this elevated position. It was so full of people that Smith was not sure how he or anybody else could make a hasty exit. He would have to slip into the crowd and count on its anonymity to envelop him.

First things first, he reminded himself. Several other men stood beside him on the back of the car. Smith thought he recognized one of them from a secessionist meeting he had attended. His hand was hidden inside his coat. Smith saw a slight bulge. So at least two of us are ready to perform the job today, he thought. Then Smith reached into his own coat and clutched his revolver. He was about to pull it out when the door flew open.

“Stop right there!”

The shout came from within the car. Before Smith could comprehend it, he saw the end of a pistol pointing at his face, just inches away. Behind the weapon he met the gaze of a man who looked ready to pull the trigger.

“Raise your hands!”

Smith knew that before he could even lift his gun, he would be shot between the eyes. But he did not loosen his grip. He was too close to his goal.

“Where’s Lincoln?” yelled Smith.

“Raise your hands, sir, or I will shoot!” came the reply. The man leaned forward. His pistol almost touched Smith’s forehead.

Suddenly Smith felt a commotion in the depot. He sensed that the men backing him up were pulling away. The tone of the mob’s shouting had changed, too. He could not hear exactly what they were saying.

“One last time, sir: Raise your hands!”

Smith released the revolver. It slid back into his pocket. He showed his hands.

“Lincoln is not on this train,” said the man. “You won’t find him in Baltimore today.”

Smith peered over the man’s shoulders, into the rest of the car. It looked like a room in the mansion of a wealthy family. The red walls and heavy furniture bore all the dainty trappings of Victorian elegance. Blue silk covered the space between the windows. Little tassels dangled from the chairs and shined in the light of the open door. As Smith peered inside, he realized the man with the gun was actually letting him study the car’s interior. He wanted Smith to see who was aboard–and who was not.

Toward the rear, Smith noticed a plump, round-faced woman with her arms wrapped around a couple of frightened girls. A hulking man stood beside her, his arm on the back of her seat. A couple of boys sat nearby. Smith was certain he had seen the woman before. She glared back at him, her eyes glowing with anger. Then Smith realized who she was. He had seen her photograph. It was Mary Todd Lincoln, wife of the president-elect. He spent another few seconds looking at the other faces. Mrs. Lincoln’s husband was definitely not aboard.

The man with the gun spoke again: “There’s your proof. He’s not here. Now leave this train immediately!”

Smith studied the man. He was in his early twenties. Except for a thin mustache, his face was clean-shaven. His features were soft. He did not look like the sort of fellow who would pack a gun and protect a dignitary, but there was a steady determination in his gaze. Smith had no doubt the young man was willing to pull the trigger.

Smith still did not move. “Who are you?” he asked meekly.

“I am John Hay, secretary to Abraham Lincoln, who at this very moment is relaxing in Washington. He passed through Baltimore early this morning, in darkness. Now back off or I will shoot!”

Smith retreated a step. The door slammed shut. Smith realized that he now stood on the back of the car with a single companion, the man he had recognized. The others who had followed him up the steps were gone. He looked at the mass of people surrounding the train. He heard voices up the track: “Lincoln is not on the train! He’s not on board!” Someone at the front of the car must have delivered the message, which spread quickly through the crowd.

Dozens of faces now turned to Smith, hoping he would contradict this report. But they saw a demoralized man. “It’s true,” he said. “Lincoln is not here.”

The catcalls started again. “Lincoln is a coward!” “He’s a sneak!” “He’s lucky he’s not here!”

Smith slumped his shoulders and looked at the man beside him.

“We have failed,” he said.

Then Smith stepped off the train and vanished into the mob. On the way out, he did not touch his gun.

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, February 25, 1861

Langston Bennett threw down his copy of the Charleston Mercury. The pages fluttered to the floor as Bennett balled his hands into fists. “Damn him!” he said, sharply but to himself. His anger crested and began to subside. Bennett could almost feel it flow from his body. That was how it always happened–a moment of lost control, followed by a quick return to his senses. He let out a sigh, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He ran his fingers through the long gray hair that touched the collar of his shirt. “Something must be done,” he said in a low voice.

He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. Instead of writing, he arched his back and gazed out the window in front of him, through the trees in Battery Park and across the harbor. He could see a couple of ships on the water. Further to his left, at the harbor’s mouth more than two miles away, he spied a tiny flag flapping above the waves. His eyes narrowed and returned to the page on his desk. He dipped his pen in a small bottle and rattled it around. When he brought it to the top of the page, the pen made a short black mark and ran dry. Now Bennett frowned. He could not even write the first letter of the date. He put the pen down, reached for a bell on his desk, and rang it loudly…

So that former South Carolina state worker who won nearly 260 million bucks says he doesn’t think the money will change him. That’s right, retiree Solomon Jackson also vows to do good with the money, perhaps supporting education programs and other nice stuff like that.

I salute Jackson – he seems like a nice guy and I wish him the best.

But in my opinion, it’s all poop.

See, for once I would like someone to really speak their mind after winning a quarter of a billion dollars.

Enough with “I’m still the same person.”

Instead, just admit that, “Hell yes- this is going to change me! In fact, I’ve already changed. I’m a rich bastard! So for the next six months – I’m going to be knee deep in coke and concubines. And if it’s possible to purchase an elephant – and then graft wings onto its back – you can bet I’m doing it. And here’s a notice to all my relatives I haven’t heard from in ages: if you even try to call me, I’m going to hire Chuck Liddell to break all your limbs, while having him wear a French maid’s outfit (yes, I can afford it).

Look, the lotto is not a marvelous mosaic of happy endings like Jackson’s. Far from it. Instead, the lottery consists mainly of people in desperate situations being nudged into a deeper well of debt. I see it everyday at the bodega near my place – folks shoveling their mounds of change and crumpled dollars – all for that big win that will change their lives forever. At least I know if they ever win, it won’t all go to supporting education programs – unless the education involves a case of Bud, a few hookers and a weeks supply of crystal meth.

Which actually sounds like a program I can totally get behind.

Tonight we have

Andrea Tantaros!

Remi Spencer!

Allen Covert!

Dr. Michael Baden!

Other stuff!

It was even more recently that San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom (D) confessed to having an affair with the wife of his campaign manager and good friend. Senator Diane Feinstein’s (D-CA) response? “Look, we all make mistakes.” Sanford’s indiscretion is greeted by the left with derision (and with censure by South Carolina Republicans); Newsom is now running for Governor.

How can this be? Is it an aversion to the idea of any objective moral standard? A different philosophy in the requirements of leadership? One can certainly assign a portion of it to the new liberal maxim- embraced by the mainstream media-that conservatives are evil while liberals are good. Blame the rest on the left’s tendency to confuse principles with men.

A belief in universal moral virtues that transcend race, culture and economic status is a precept of conservatism. For new liberals public advocacy of this ideal is hypocrisy disguised as sanctimony. Therefore, when conservatives fail to clear that moral high bar, to liberal eyes it is not only testimony of the vacancy of the principles it is also confirmation of the ultimate depravity of the conservative mind and evidence of why they can’t be trusted with public office.

Because there is little value in principles, for the new liberal it is much better to set the moral bar as low as possible or better yet do away with it all together; simply proclaim that morality is relative and that what is good and true for you may not be true and good for me. And because progressives are doing the good work of bringing about social justice when they inevitably fail to live up to the rather low moral expectations they set, it is for them simply evidence of their humanity and a private matter not for public consumption.

What they miss is that it is precisely the onward march of progressivism that makes the private failings of public servants very much our business.

There was a time in our history when what we expected from our public servants was that they kept the machinery of government well oiled. Times have changed. Progressive politics ushered in an era of leaders as visionaries. Our leaders now ask us to trust them to use the machinery of government to solve the problems of mankind – to make our lives better. We are asked to follow them as they lead us into the Promised Land. It is precisely this change in the focus of leadership that makes the issue of private morality important. The question is not one of sex so much as it is one of credibility and judgment.

If a man can’t be trusted to guard the faith of his wife and the mother of his children, can he be depended upon to guard the public trust? Appeals to the greater social good ring hollow when made by men that visit disaster on their own families and the families of others.

It is ironic indeed that as we are asked to turn ever growing amounts of control over our personal lives to government, we are simultaneously being asked to dismiss notions of moral accountability as prudish or worse.

Of course none of this will make any sense if you are of the opinion that tradition is “so yesterday.” It will make even less sense if the inability of individual men to live up to certain principles is proof of the worthlessness of the principles as opposed to evidence of the weakness of the men.

There are a lot of other things in this story that make me question Mark Sanford’s judgment. How can any sane man think that he can jet off to South America for a week and have it go unnoticed? My brother runs a pizza joint and if he shows up fifteen minutes late the place is in chaos. How can a guy who runs a state think he can go off the grid for a week? I have long believed that a secret is only a secret if just one person knows it. How did the Governor’s love email get out? Gov. Sanford’s mistress claims her account was hacked. That means someone knew where to look for these love letters.

Here is another problem: Almost no one gets caught the first time they break a rule or a law. I am gonna guess that Governor Stanford has had another girlfriend or two in his past. I believe in forgiveness and that people can change but you do that in private and not while you are trying to fend off the liberals who are trying to ruin our country while your ex-mistresses are popping out of the woodwork. Mark Stanford needs to make some apologies and a quick exit from the political stage.

When he turns in his papers, I have the perfect person to replace him: his wife Jenny Sanford. She has been reported to be one of his top advisors and has experience in business and government. I also think she gives the other Republican Party hottie, Sarah Palin, a run for her money in the looks department. Here is what I like most about Jenny Sanford; she was not standing next to her husband when he gave his apology for his Argentine adventure. I have often wondered where these politicians find women who are willing to walk out behind them after they have been treated like doormats. She gave her husband a chance to straighten up when she found out about the affair a few months ago but now she is telling him to go suck eggs. She cares more about herself, herself self-respect and her values than the power of being First Lady of South Carolina with the possibility of moving up in a few years. If Hillary Clinton had that kind of spine, she would be sitting in the big chair right now instead of hoping that she can hang on and get her shot in 2016.