Marky Mark Sanford: Bad Vibrations

Mark, Mark, Mark…you ASS.

*sigh*

I was pretty impressed when we met at The Heritage Classic a few years ago. You were cordial and took a few minutes to actually talk to me instead of just shaking hands and walking on. I’ve supported you. I’ve voted for you. I was looking forward to you seeking the nomination for President in 2012.

Now? You’re just an ass.

Ya’ll had me fooled. I was willing to believe that you were actually off hiking along the App-Trail to clear your head after a tough legislative session, like your wife and spokespeople said. I was willing to even overlook the no phone calls and no contact with your family on Father’s Day; hell, it was your day so you were spending it out in the woods, right?

When everyone was doing the Chicken Little and panicking because you were incommunicado and left no clear transfer of gubernatorial powers to Andre Bauer, I was still behind you. They were just being alarmist, said I. When the aforementioned Poultry People cried about “What if there was a hurricane or a terrorist attack? Who would call out the National Guard?”, I scoffed. A hurricane would give us a week’s warning at the very least; they don’t pop up over Charleston harbor like an afternoon thunderboomer. If we were attacked, Bauer and the Adjutant General could begin the recalls and sort it out later; better safe than sorry, right?

And now we find out that you skipped country for a piece of ass? Dude….that’s just foul. It’s one thing to go underground for a couple days to chill in the woods, hike a bit, and if the crapple hits the fan blades, we can at least get to you in a couple hours……but to skip country, nay, skip continents, to shag up on a long-term booty-call is just bullshit.


You were a potential front-runner to seek the Presidency. Now, you’ll be lucky to get appointed third-shift grocery bagger or apprentice dog-catcher in this state. On the plus side, at least you didn’t knock up some chick while your wife was dying; John “$400 Haircuts” Edwards has that dubious distinction. You didn’t shag a hooker in your black dress socks after making a name for yourself busting prostitution rings. That was Spitzer. You went to her country, so you didn’t diddle her with a cigar at the State House in Columbia like Bubba Clinton.

In a word, Mark……FAIL.

Collossal, magnitude 10, complete and utter EPIC FAIL.