You know, if John McCain was Al Gore at this point, the mainstream media would have crucified him, sent razor-taloned birds to pluck out his eyes, and pointed and laughed as he screamed and bled and pissed himself.
In a cheesy fake Irish pub in the panhandle of Florida, the Rude Pundit was drinking some goddamned unholy concoction with friends when, out of nowhere, a very, very little old man in a leprechaun outfit came out. The bartender rang a bell and all the fat families engorging themselves on gigantic burgers put down their sloppy meals to watch as this withered man danced a gay jig around, tipping his little hat, gladly picking up dollars when someone dropped them for him. He scared the children. He delighted the frat guys.
And then, his dance over, he toddled over to the Rude Pundit and whispered, "Fer ta love o' God, boyo, put a bullet in me. Look at me. I'm an old man and they have me prancin' fer change. Have pity and take me out back and put a bullet in me." The Rude Pundit felt sad for the man, but he shrugged, having no gun and no inclination for letting people out of the lot they accepted. Besides, his dancing was so fuckin' cute.