Three faces of eve or robotic programming error?

Back again, god knows why.

I could almost be over politics if it were not for the unmitigated delight of watching HRC [or swampsow, her sobriquet over at my local] suffer the most nuclear, and televised, of meltdowns. Each moment is more precious than the next.

Trying to stuff Bill, her once vaunted silver bullet, back into the closet, most likely sending him comely interns to keep him occupied. Swerving in and out of various personas in that never-ending, and ever so pesky, challenge of “finding her voice.”

Should she cry, whine, bat her eyelashes and play the sweet Damsel in Distress being assaulted by the Big Bad Boys, the Unfair Media and, oh, that pervy Chris Matthews?

Should she play Schoolmistress Dominatrix, jabbing her finger, lowering her angry, angry voice to a testosterone-laced rumble?

Or how about Crazed Housewife Off Her Meds, arms flailing skyward, screeching at the top of her lungs, ranting maniacally about prophets of hope and the righteousness of despair.

It’s almost enough to get one out of bed in the morning.