What's the Big Deal About Binders Full of Women?

Binders full of women?

To make a Gilligan's Island analogy, last night's debate reminded me of an argument between the professor and an exotic hybrid combining Gilligan and Thurston Howell III.

Good God, where do we begin?

According to the talking heads, President Obama needed to climb through the ropes clutching a couple of canisters of Whoopass with the lids already off. He knew this Romney guy was girding his loins for a street fight.

And considering that special underwear he sports, that's a lot of Kevlar.

At the outset, the former Massachusetts governor looked cocky and relaxed. He leaned against his bar stool, casually rose and swaggered across the red carpet, clutching the mic like it was his second Shirley Temple on an empty stomach.

No podium, no notes, no problem.

The debate's format was town hall style, comprising an audience of undecided voters, a few of whom had been selected to ask questions of the candidates. Surprisingly, none appeared filthy, bearded, or exhibiting any other attributes of having lived in guano-oozing caves without cable or internet access for the past two years.

Governor Romney initially employed the same tactic for which he received little challenge during the last debate, utilizing numbers to appear competent and truthful. He claimed that oil drilling on federal lands has decreased by fourteen percent during Obama's tenure, thereby causing a surge in oil and gasoline prices.

Our president stood and glared at Romney, as if to say,"Not so fast, my gray-templed, Just for Men spokesmodel." Oil production on federal lands did decrease once— during 2009—but that was due to the Deepwater Horizon oil spill, and overall, drilling has increased by ten percent during the Obama administration.

Oh well, potato potahto. Romney hadn't campaigned relentlessly for the past seven years to cut and run now. If numbers don't work, maybe he could skewer Obama with his own words. When the topic switched to the aftermath of the Benghazi attacks, he asserted that Obama waited fourteen days to label the killings an act of terror.

The President appeared annoyed, as if he'd regretted not having shown up with his daughter's Etch-a-Sketch, since it would have been a lot easier just scrawling out the word "bullshit" and holding it up to the camera every couple of minutes.

With the same incredulous look, Mr. Obama retorted that on September 12, the day after the attacks, he declared that ""No acts of terror will ever shake the resolve of this great nation, alter that character, or eclipse the light of the values that we stand for."

This time, it was Mitt who lacked for words. Little help, Candy Crowley? He did say that? Whatever, he's still a commie.

Finally, Romney called off the dogs, believing that since facts and figures were just tools for manipulating the truth, he could sell the audience on his own accomplishments as Governor of Massachusetts.

Asked by Crowley what he would do as president to tear down the glass ceiling denying women equal pay for equal work, Romney avoided the question, instead deciding to boast of a mandate he enacted while governor.

He'd adeptly noticed that, since few women were being vetted for cabinet-level positions, he would initiate a search for qualified women.

Here's the thing, though—that didn't happen. Romney was actually presented his infamous "binders full of women" by MassGAP, a group of women who had resolved to present a list of qualified personnel to whomever was elected governor.

In the end, it was a win-win for Massachusetts, since women comprised forty-two percent of the cabinet and they didn't cost as much.

But I'll tell you, even though Mitt lied about it, it's not like possessing binders full of women is that big of a deal.

When I was a teenager, I didn't put them in binders because that would have been really uncomfortable and hard to fit under my mattress, but I totally could have put them in binders if I had wanted to.

I wonder what ever happened to those.

How the Gingrich Stole Christmas.

"Hey, Newt! Put on your helmet! You're going in for Cain!"

"Really? Really, Coach? Can I? Yes! Don't you remember, though? I'm not very athletic. I just help you think up plays. And I don't have a helmet because we couldn't find one big enough to fit my recess-ball-sized head."

"I don't care, Gingrich. We're out of subs, so get in there!"

Okay, enough with analogies originating from my football-soaked brain stem. Hard to believe, isn't it? It's finally Newt's turn as the leading Republican for the 2012 Presidential nomination. Wow.

First, Michele Bachmann tapped herself out of the running by confusing the potentially life-saving HPV vaccine as a sinister gateway drug to mental retardation. Hmmm...now that I've really pondered this fact, I'm surprised that bug-eyed Stepford Wife didn't wholeheartedly support the vaccine.

After all, it could increase her voting base.

I know, I know. Cheap and insensitive. Couldn't resist.

Shortly after Bachmann stumbled through the political sliding glass door, Rick Perry rose to the top, but quickly shat himself by proving incapable of naming the three cabinet-level departments he'd vowed to eliminate. Oops.

What's the deal, Texas? Out of all the available talent in your expansive state, why do you only elect governors who, while vehemently opposing reproductive rights, believe that back in 1973, Roe vs. Wade fought just before Ali and Frazier?

It's painful to watch Perry attempt to drum up facts and figures. It's like his thoughts are Pong balls knocking around in his cavernous head while his eyes follow behind. Nice hair, though.

And then it was time for the former Chief Executive Officer of Godfather's Pizza, a product which actually broke my mom's tooth back in 1978, to bear the standard for the Grand Old Party.

Unfortunately, Herman Cain also choked on his chances by denying, despite daunting evidence to the contrary, how much extra pepperoni he'd personally delivered over the past twenty years.

I wonder if Herman was a thirty minutes or less guy.

Enter Newton Leroy "Newt" Gingrich, that terrier-faced, twice-adulterous, Muppet who just doesn't know when to say when. After losing key staffers and nearly imploding back in May, Gingrich has wrestled front-runner status from Mitt Romney, whose hat has been in the ring so long it's covered with John McCain's dandruff.

Newt's a different animal, however. He's an idea guy and he's not into tempering his thoughts prior to verbalizing them in his gurgling, pre-pubescent tenor.

Since he's got so much experience working with poor, non-white children, he's proposed a plan which could compel even Geoffrey Chaucer's rotting corpse to stand and applaud:

Gingrich, who firmly believes, in all his Caucasian splendor, that we each possess an equal shot at economic success and wealth, has proposed allowing under-aged minors to work as school custodians.

Since these kids obviously suffer in poverty due to their single mothers' lazy work ethics, what better way to teach the value of a buck than to hire twelve-year-old black kids to replace union janitors and throw scented cat litter over vomit at a fraction of the cost?

Win. Win.

More recently, Newt branded the Palestinians an "invented people." Before you feel sliced by sharp pudding lids of outrage, remember that Gingrich knows the definition of an invented person, since he's one himself.

His philandering past has been dumped into the compost bin and he's  re-invented himself as a humble, monogamous public servant. He has sought the Lord's forgiveness, the ultimate Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card for cheating on two wives, even discussing divorce with his first wife as she lay in a hospital bed recovering from cancer surgery.

Anyway, yeah, Newt Gingrich is your guy right now, Republicans. What do you think? Are you going to support this schmuck?

Or will you wait to hear if God's going to vote for Obama again?

Herman Cain steps up to it...and into it.

Prepare yourself. Here comes Captain Analogy again, swooping down to spin yet another unsolicited parable.

When you played soccer as a kid, do you remember a conditioning drill where everyone jogged around the field in a straight line? The player in the back of the line sprinted to the front, creating a new player in the back, who then darted to the front, and so on all the way around the outside of the field?

From my perspective as a spectator watching the trotting line of Republican Presidential candidates while perched on a splintered bleacher, clutching a Thermos of hot buttered Thunderbird, Herman Cain has loped to the front of the queue as Michele Bachmann and Rick Perry drop further and further toward the back of the line.

As hard as it must be for Perry to run in cowboy boots, imagine being Mrs. Bachmann  and trying to keep up with that physical specimen New Gingrich while wearing four-inch Manolo Blahniks.

Anyway, back to Herman Cain. The man has not gone away; in fact, he's surging in nearly every poll.

And why shouldn't he be? This self-made former chairman and CEO of Godfather's Pizza has formulated an economic fix so brilliant, yet so simple, that maybe we should toss him the White House's garage door opener right now.

Mr. Cain is proposing a "999 Plan"—a nine percent business flat tax, a nine percent individual flat tax and a nine percent national sales tax—to heal America's flat lining economy. The number nine, when used in this context, seems so tame, so non-threatening. According to Cain, "if the public understands it, they will support it and demand it."

Seriously? What a ridiculous and patronizing statement. I "understand" spraying Chanel No. 5 onto the eyeballs of bunny rabbits in the name of beauty, but I don't support it and definitely don't demand it. Cain's 999 Plan would effectively raise taxes for America's poor and middle class.

Understandable? You bet it is.

I've grown so weary of slick, highly-marketed political schemes which assume that clever simplicity is all the public requires. Maybe Herman Cain was the genius behind the nine-topping pizza for $9.99, but he's going to have to try a bit harder with this one.

I can already envision what counteroffensives his fellow Republicans are mulling over to jump start our ailing economy:

Rick Santorum's "555 Initiative"—Homosexuals must work for five dollars per hour until age fifty-five or the moment they are cured, whichever comes first. American business will reap the rewards through lower gay labor costs and Senator Santorum has offered to personally explain the "trickle-down" concept to those who have yet to see the light.

Michele Bachmann's "Project 666: designed to turn the 999 Plan upside down"—Six percent tax cut to anyone who spray paints "John 3:16" on six Planned Parenthood clinics, or wears a size six like she does.

Rick Perry's "One" Plan—According to a Perry spokesman, we'll be the first to know as soon as he remembers what it is.

Other pithy campaigns have been attempted like Dick Cheney's "1-2-3" Iraq strategy—Kill one Iraqi dictator, two of his sons and three thousand Americans, or George Bush's "Strategy 888"—In eight years, make sense eight times and leave office with eight people still liking you.

Herman Cain recently stated, "Don't blame Wall Street. Don't blame the big banks. If you don't have a job and you're not rich, blame yourself." He also believed that the Occupy Wall Street protests were "planned and orchestrated to distract from the failed policies of the Obama administration."

Such enlightened statements. Mr. Cain, it appears that you finally made it to the front of the line.

And promptly stepped in something.

Confidence is sexy. But please keep your shirt on.

A couple of evenings ago, my nuclear family and I settled in over a table of Greek salads and bread, complimented by some powder blue Safeway napkins with pleasantly quilted patterns.

As has been a more frequent topic of late, the upcoming school year reared its head again. My wife asked my sixteen-year-old daughter if she would be agreeable to dropping off our younger girl for her first day of middle school, since parental drop-offs are so "elementary school."

"That would be cute of me," replied the elder sibling.

Cute of me? I hadn't recalled those words having ever been used together before.

"Did you say, 'That would be cute of me?'" I had to confirm.

"Yeah. I'm sure everyone would think it's cute for the big high school sister to drop off the little sister for her first day of middle school," she replied, narrowly avoiding dipping her hair tips into her vinegary salad bowl...again.

Commonly, when my teenager utters such arrogant statements, I'm rendered speechless as I was on this occasion. She's often so oblivious to her utterances that I really don't think she realizes how it sounds to those within earshot.

As she slowly pivoted her head back toward her food, my teenager's eyes screeched to a halt.

My wife observed the process. "You're looking at your arm, aren't you?"

"Yes. Wow, I'm really getting toned this summer."

Such confidence. It is obnoxious for sure, but nonetheless is a trait I've always admired. We live in a culture where we either muster up our self worth from within, or ride the bucking bronco of public opinion. Should we make the error in validating ourselves through others' opinions, we run the risk of feeling like something that that bronco squeezed out its backside.

When Barack Obama was elected, it seemed as if the entire planet Earth believed he could walk across Lake Michigan without getting his wingtips wet. But ultimately, Mr. Obama has proven himself unable to work miracles, such as healing both an already broken economy and an entire class of lepers known as the Tea Party.

Unwavering confidence is a must for any President. After all, can you imagine a moment when you're actually telling yourself, "You know what? I think I should be the ruler of the free world. Yeah, definitely. Either that or work at Costco."

But what about other lines of work where unbridled confidence is a prerequisite?

Professional boxer: Imagine stepping onto a roped off canvas in front of thousands of people, and you're not wearing a shirt? Okay, that's a dream I've had quite a bit, but in addition, you're supposed to pummel another shirtless guy into unconsciousness or just make him bleed so much he can no longer see. This would require confidence and probably not a lot of other job opportunities.

Navy SEAL: Someone calls you and some buddies into a room, where you sit in one of those school desk/chair things, and says, "We're gonna need you guys to get into a helicopter, fly secretly into Pakistan, kill Osama and pack up a bunch of his stuff, including his porn stash and Whitney Houston cassettes. Then bring the body back in the helicopter, mmmkay? Oh, and don't forget to use the Swiffer before you leave. Clean floors show that America has paid a visit."

Graphic designer: When a hundred-year-old company's future depends on one pixel moved to the left or right, I'm up to the task. And, I can perform while listening to Night Ranger. I'll stop there, since I'm sure you're already doubting yourself.

So before you ask your wife how you look in those short slacks and striped green tie, before you run the brown clogs and denim jumper by your husband, take a good look in the mirror. You don't need outsiders' validation.

You look good, and you know it.