There's Something About Barry

The something about Barack Obama is that he just doesn't get it when he tries to relate to people whose American experience is different from his.

Obama on rural Americans:

And they fell through the Clinton administration, and the Bush administration, and each successive administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna regenerate and they have not. And it’s not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.

Look Barack, you and Michelle grew up in primarily urban environments, and it seems that silver spoons were never far from your mouths. The rural American experience is alien to you. Now, you're trying to relate, and I give you some credit for that, though trying to pound the round peg of country life into the square hole of the nanny state isn't the way to do it.

Let's take that clinging to guns thing, for instance.

Now, I grew up in a rural hamlet in upstate New York. A hamlet is a place so small that it has a name, but the only local "government" is maybe a volunteer fire department, if that.

Apart from the fact that we use our guns to hunt game, both big and small, there's another issue. Something that might not occur to you high-falutin' city folk.

Let's say that you, Barry, suddenly find yourself in need of assistance from the police. A typical white, born-again, drunken, anti-trade bigot who hates illegal immigrants is banging on the door to your mansion and you're afraid for the safety of your family. Why, I'll bet the Chicago police are there inside of five minutes with bells on and whistles blowing. And it probably will be quicker than that; it'll just seem like five minutes to you.

Back in the sticks, where us rubes hang out swilling beer, ogling cousins, and shooting up road signs, it's a different story.

Let's say that a woman who lives where I grew up has kicked her man out because he developed the habit of knocking her around a little bit whenever he got the right mix of intoxicating spirits into himself. One night around two AM he starts banging on her door and shouting that he's going to wring her neck.

She can't call the local police, because there aren't any local police. It's a hamlet, dude.

She's got two choices: she could call the state police substation, which is a few minutes closer than the sheriff, but there isn't always someone there; in fact, two in the AM isn't a good time to even hope that anyone's there. So she calls the county sheriff.

Now, since the sheriff is located in the county seat on the other side of the county, it's going to be at least a half hour before help shows up at her not-a-mansion door. Maybe she'll get lucky and a deputy will be on road patrol somewhere closer, say, only twenty minutes away, or so.

Mr. Obama, sir, can you see why this poor woman might need an equalizer?

Over at Power Line, John Hinderaker is wondering if Barack has just scuttled his whole campaign with this misstep.