The Torch, appropriately enough, is going down in flames, and it’s about goddamn time. Let me give you a bit of personal context, to drive home just what a foul little corruption monkey Bob Torricelli was. My father, bless his heart, is a Yellow Dog Democrat. I don’t hold him responsible for that: in Franco Spain, you were either a socialist or a fascist, and Dad, understandably, chose the political movement with cuter women. (One of the few real benefits of mass anti-globalization demonstrations coming to town, by the way. But I digress.) He was a bit puzzled to find that the American socialist party called itself “Democratic” upon his arrival in the US, but a rose by any other name, as they say, and so his loyalties transferred naturally enough. Now, I’m his eldest son, so Dad is only slightly horrified by my chosen life as an evil right winger, and politely refrains from projectile vomiting when I speak with obvious delight about the prospect of dismantling the welfare state and public education system. Still, I feel pretty certain that he would feed his testicles to rabid weasels before he would contemplate voting Republican. What’s more, Dad had actively supported Bob Torricelli since the Torch was a 31 year old congressman. You know all those breast centers Bob bragged about having “built” during his tenure in that crass speech in which he announced he was dropping out of the race? Well, Bob built them, of course, but Dad “helped” with one of ’em.
In short, if anyone were going to stand by the Torch in these dark times, it’d be the man to whom I owe my Y-chromosome. (And a fine chromosome it is, if I do say so myself. Thanks Pop!) But I just got off the horn with the paterfamilias, and it seems as though the revalations of envelopes stuffed full of hundred dollar bills to finance visits to various girlfriends, the quid pro quo for shady political favors, the intimations of mob ties, and the gross, shameless denial far beyond the point of remotest plausibility proved too much even for him. The disgust in his voice as he went through the sordid details was palpable. The final irony, he observed, was that September 11th was the best thing to ever happen to Bob Torricelli: the diversion of federal prosecutors to more important matters spared the scuzzmuppet an indictment. All that remains to be seen now is whether the New Jersey Supreme Court will see fit to write an “exposure of your candidate’s gross criminality” loophole into state election laws and allow the Ds to sub in a horse who isn’t a complete embarassment. Don’t hold your breath, guys. And don’t worry, Pop, you’ll get another shot in six years.
