Regular Guys

Maggie Gallagher has a new political heartthrob, in the predictable form of Marco Rubio.

And why not? He grew up among the poor, so he knows what's best for them and can increase their burdens with a steady hand and a dry eye. "He understands economics in deeply moral terms," unlike the rest of us. He dislikes gay people, and may even be heterosexual. He's "unapologetically pro-life," which means he need never apologize for the cavalier bloodlust that marks all Gallagher-approved GOP daddies as children -- or perhaps even brothers -- of God. Best of all, his ideas are "timeless," as anyone who has elevated Babbittry to a cosmic principle can plainly see.

This sempiternal man is competing with Charlie Crist for one of Florida's senate seats. In order to highlight their substantive differences on policy, Crist has accused him of getting expensive haircuts, which is the last thing we want from our kneekerk defenders of unearned privilege and redundant wealth. Crist's hair, by contrast, is staunchly democratic: it's cut, when absolutely necessary, "by a man named Carl the Barber," to the tune of $11, just as Hayek recommended in The Road to Serfdom. Whether they sing "Sweet Adeline" afterwards, Crist leaves to our imagination.

Anyway, Gallagher's in love, so naturally she doesn't want to hear anything bad about Rubio, especially if it's not only true, but worse than she's prepared to admit. How dare a cynical career politician like Crist try to play "the regular guy card" against this humble public servant, who seeks high office strictly out of necessity, and needs to look his best if he's going to defeat the blow-dried metrosexuals in both Democrat Parties? No wonder she issues this stark warning to Crist:

Charlie, I'm telling you: Don't kill our dream. The political blood on the floor will be yours.

Don't kill our dream! Someone really needs to put that on a t-shirt and sell it to the Teabaggers at $49.95 a pop.

It strikes me that although conservatives like Gallagher claim to have an unmatched philosophical grasp of human wickedness, it doesn't seem to stop them from prostrating themselves like cats in heat before smirking hypocrites wearing tinfoil halos. You heard it here first!

If you doubt the justice of this observation, please be advised that I cut my hair with a Bowie knife and brush my teeth with a twig, like all preternaturally honest and perceptive people.

(Illustration: "Shuffleton's Barbershop" by Norman Rockwell, 1950.)