I just saw the third presidential debate.
The press did not do as fierce a job mugging Trump as before, indeed, when I actually heard a question from the moderator about the Wikileaks revelations, I thought perhaps I had stumbled through a dimensional gateway into a mirror universe where Spock has a goatee or Superman is a crime boss. Her reply was to say that the Russians were behind it, and that Putin was a puppet of the Russians.
This is the woman who took a massive bribe from Russia and made the Uranium One deal with them, giving them control of one fifth of the Uranium production in the US.
I am reminded of the story of Pygmalion. You perhaps have heard the second half of the tale, where he sculpts the perfect woman out of ivpry, and falls so deeply in love with his own creation that the love-goddess Aphrodite grants soul and life to the figure, whom he weds. But the first half is usually forgotten:
There was once a sculptor in Cyprus, the island sacred to Aphrodite, goddess of love, named Pygmalion. On this same island lived the daughters of Propoetus, who scorned love and declared Aphrodite to be no goddess at all, merely another name for the passions we have in common with animals. In retaliation, Aphrodite cursed them. The Propoetides lost the power to blush, and the blood hardened in their cheeks. They became the first prostitutes in the world, as shameless with their bodies as with their reputations. So hardhearted became these women that they turned into statues of flint. Pygmalion, revolted at the sight of them, scorned the company of all women.
Listening to Mrs. Clinton, I just kept thinking of a daughters of Propoetus, flint hearted and flint skinned, a creature incapable of blushing.
The sheer effrontery of blaming Donald for the violence at his rallies when that violence was staged and caused by mentally ill people her campaign hired just for that purpose, when the fact that her campaign was caught on tape admitting the same had just been discussed, makes her a Propoetide.
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