A Sudden Rush of Shit to the Heart
I actually felt sorry for Mark Sanford for about forty five seconds last night. Sorry for myself too, most likely, but we’ll get to that.
I had followed the astonishing shit fountain that was the Sanford story in text only format off and on for most of the day, and was aware of how cosmically fucked he had been by the day’s events. “Take him off the grill, he’s done,” said my office mate Zed, a polite young man who would never consider sticking a fork in anyone’s ass, even before the AP wires concerning the Governor’s gawkily erotic e-mails and his possible use of state funds on trips to Argentina had posted. Still, I had not seen the actual news conference that kicked off one of the weirdest days in recent political history until late last evening, and was surprised to find myself somewhat moved by the beginning of Sanford’s apologies. Listening to Sanford apologize to his spouse and sons for letting them down, I, and I daresay many other members of the divorced with kids community—and we are legion—experienced a sudden rush of shit to the heart. Everything that I had learned about Sanford over the course of the day fell away at that moment, and I found myself in empathy with the man, his family broken, his future bleak and unimaginable, delivering an apology that would never ever be enough to make up for his actions.
The Governor followed up by apologizing to his staff, and to all South Carolinians singly and collectively. He then began to apologize to what soon seemed like a comprehensive list of all those South Carolinians by name. This soon became mind numbing enough to kick my critical facilities back into alignment, at which point I re-tumbled to the accumulated facts. Sanford had let his wife down by fucking another woman. He had let his sons down by setting off several large bombshells in what had previously been their stable and nurturing home by fucking a woman other than their mom. He had further let his family down by forcing them to lie for months to cover up the fact that he was fucking another woman, and by likely repeating that action on Fathers’ Day. He let his staff down by making them lie about his whereabouts to cover up the fact that he was out of the country fucking a woman other than his wife, and by leaving them holding a rather large bag indeed for five days with no means of contacting him. He had let down all South Carolinians, singly and collectively, by disappearing for days on end, completely abdicating his responsibilities as their governor in what may yet prove to be an impeachable manner, so that he could fuck a woman other than his wife, in a foreign county, quite possibly at their expense.
“Fuck that,” I thought, “he’s a much bigger asshole than I ever was.”
Until last week, Sanford’s career hadn’t been an appreciably larger collection of clinkers than that of any of his rivals for the tattered mantel of the Conservative Republicans, and had in fact been going well to the degree that one could consider that mantel to be a prize worth fighting for. Though I am sure that the cell phone and e-mail traffic between the Governor and any one of a number of crisis management PR teams is fast and furious at the moment, any possible comeback—I imagine an attempt at exploiting the “contrite sinner” image for maximum Evangelical appeal, along with a lot of fingers pointing in Bill Clinton’s direction—is dependent on whether or not Sanford’s deeds lead to impeachment, indictment, or both, possibilities that seem ever more likely as the story progresses. Even if he isn’t, anyone supporting him out of anything other than a fervent belief in God’s forgiveness through our risen Lord Jesus Christ has to find some way of getting around the stone cold documented fact that Sanford has spent those moments of the last year not occupied in acting like a damn fool pursuing a career as a lying pimp.
In any other party in any other year, I would rate Sanford’s chances of a comeback at zero. For the Republicans circa 2009, suffice it to say that I don’t want to contemplate living in a world where such a thing can take place until I absolutely have to. Until then, somebody pass me a fork.
