Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the Last White Hope of the Democratic Party turned out to be Chelsea Clinton in 2020?
Chelsea, people were quietly starting to observe, had a tendency to talk a lot, and at length, not least about Chelsea. But you couldn’t interrupt, not even if you’re on TV at NBC, where she was earning $600,000 a year at the time. “When you are with Chelsea, you really need to allow her to finish,” Jay Kernis, one of Clinton’s segment producers at NBC, told Vogue. “She’s not used to being interrupted that way.”
Sounds perfect for a dating profile: I speak at length, and you really need to let me finish. I’m not used to interruptions.
What comes across with Chelsea, for lack of a gentler word, is self-regard of an unusual intensity. And the effect is stronger on paper. Unkind as it is to say, reading anything by Chelsea Clinton—tweets, interviews, books—is best compared to taking in spoonfuls of plain oatmeal that, periodically, conceal a toenail clipping.
Vanity Fair isn’t waiting to fire a few shots across the bow in an attempt to dissuade her before she even announces her decision to run for president: PLEASE, GOD, STOP CHELSEA CLINTON FROM WHATEVER SHE IS DOING. The last thing the left needs is the third iteration of a failed political dynasty.
Regardless, 2020 will likely be the last time Democrats even consider running a white candidate. I would tend to assume it will be a black candidate, assuming a credible and reasonably crime-free one can be found, offered up as a sacrificial lamb to the God-Emperor, after which the Asians and Hispanics will take over the party.