T. Coddington weighs in:

Who was this mysterious rival, I inquired – some heretofore unknown Machiavellian prodigy from Harvard poli sci? An old-money interloper from the Philadelphia Mainline? Neither, they said. The challenge, they explained, came in the form of one “Christine O’Donnell,” a financially destitute 37-year old Tea Party schoolgirl whose intellectual heft by comparison made even la Palin look Obamanesque. I then watched in abject horror as they played a video of her crusading against teenage onanism. I admit no great pride in my own occasional participation in that unseemly adolescent pastime, but what sort of person declaims it on MTV? And what sort of party allows her name to appear on an official primary ballot? And that is when it struck me: I was obviously now witnessing the premise of an elaborate practical joke. Delawareans have long been known as the irascible pranksters of East Coast Republicanism, and to be selected as the target of their good-natured japery is in some fashion an honor. Even though the stunt nearly led to his untimely demise, the very first T. Coddington Van Voorhees himself reportedly enjoyed a hearty laugh after his waggish Delaware friend E. I. du Pont replaced his trusty dueling pistol with a replica that egested a comical “BANG” flag. Not wanting to spoil their fun, I did not let on to the Delaware party officials that I was wise to their little joke. Instead, I played along and counseled them to run a last minute, no-holds-barred negative media blitz against their impossibly fictional “Tea Party candidate.”

And thus I awaited with wry anticipation as Farquhar slowly traversed the breakfast room with the cart bearing the punchline to the Delawareans’ clever prank. This was followed by gales of riotous laughter when I discovered the wags had printed an entire mock edition of the New York Times announcing their satirical “Miss O’Donnell” had actually won the race! I was so overcome with mirth that I kicked over the cart, spilling grapefruit across the marble. As Farquhar trembled back to the kitchens to retrieve the mop, I reached for the ringing telephone prepared to hear the voice of the Delaware GOP chairman crowing about his ingenious drollery. Instead I was greeted with the panicked entreaties of none other that Mr. Castle himself, joined by the Republican National Congressional Committee brain trust, insisting against all rational evidence that Miss O’Donnell was in fact real and that she had indeed won the contest. I conducted an incredulous review of the cable news channels, which confirmed their wild story. I called the kitchen intercom and bade Farquhar fetch me a stiff drink on his way back with the mop.

He’ll probably need to make it a double.

[Update a few minutes later]

A rare interview with the Hawk himself.

Barack? Ummmm…can we talk?

I guess what I was trying to say is that those early days were magical. But, well, maybe magic isn’t the best basis for a… Shit. Look, maybe the best way to do this is just come out and say it. I think it’s best if we take a break.

There, I said it.

Come… come on Barack, please don’t be that way. And don’t act so surprised, I mean you must have at least seen some of the approval rating signs. Tea Party? No, Tea Party didn’t put me up to this. Yeah, sure I’ve see him around the neighborhood. I mean, what am I supposed to do while you’re off vacationing with your friends? Sit around this place without a job and watch MSNBC? No, it’s platonic. So far. And for your information, Tea isn’t the retarded Nazi racist loser your friends are always painting him to be. And guess what? He listens to me and seems to like me for what I am, and doesn’t expect me to wear that stupid complicated Scandinavian nurse outfit like you gave me for Christmas. By the way, the charge card bill from Frederick’s of Stockholm just arrived yesterday. $1 trillion, Barack? Really?

“It’s not you, it’s me.” Heh.

Anyway, we’ll always have Denver.

Iowahawk has the sordid tale:

It happened that in Washingtown-on-Beltway there once ministered to the shire folk two vicars of remarkable and resolute piety. Polite history shall record their names and peerages as the Reverend John St. Edwards, Lord Plaintiff of Durham, and the Reverend Albert des Gores II, Earl Carbonet of Greenhouse. It shall likewise note well that each man, in his fashion, was a virtuoso upon his respective pulpit. What it shan’t record, however, is each man’s slavish indenture to the base desires of the flesh. As every schoolboy knows, as well he does his Latin infinitives, few are those men whose breeches are immune to the Devil’s disturbances. In the case of our two ill-fortuned subjects, Lucifer himself seemed to take particular delight in presenting ribald temptations and the debasing consequences that follow. Herein lies their tale.

Well, it actually lies at the other end of the link.

…is back, and he’s starting to lose his faith in The One:

I had not seen Kloonkie this distraught since our days as chalet mates at a Swiss finishing school, when his mother, the late Countess Astrid Von Wallensheim-Ascencão, infamously renounced her peerage to remarry an itinerant Portuguese tennis professional.

“Coddsie, it’s not just the boat,” he sniffed. “It’s the whole damned world. Have you been to the continent lately? The economy is moribund, the Euro is falling apart, and the underclasses are too lazy to do anything but riot for longer holidays. I wrote half the EU regulations on immigration and pensions, and how do they thank me? If I moor at St. Tropez, my yacht will be confiscated by the French tax officials. If I stop at the old family island I’ll be attacked by rampaging Greek postal carriers. If stay out of harbor, I risk getting mistaken for an Israeli navy ship and blown up by some Palestinian peace flotilla. And this — this president of yours doesn’t seem to have a single idea what to do about it.”

I and my guests were momentarily stunned, this being the first time any of us had heard an ill word spoken about Mr. Obama by a European of impeccable intellect with the Hermes ascot to match. This was followed, understandably, by muffled sobs. It was left to me to gamely break the lachrymose silence. “Perhaps Kloonkie is right,” I said. “Perhaps the President has not quite turned out to be the Reagan reincarnation we all expected, and in some ways I am beginning to believe this Obama fellow is unequal to the task. As the intellectual conscience of the conservative movement, and whatever our previous enthusiasm for the chap, we ought have the courage to point out those rare instances where his performance has been found wanting. Such as foreign and domestic policy. The important thing is that we not end up implicated in his shortcomings.”

“Take the President’s economic program,” I added. “We could begin noting how little it has done to revive the fortunes of East Hampton’s polo outfitters. My own Argentine malletier Jorge, for exampIe, has returned to the pampas, leaving me to make do with last year’s model. And if the polo equipment sector is struggling I am forced to assume that other parts of the American economy may be as well. And, although we all voiced support for Mr. Obama’s plan, we should emphasize that support was merely based on what it was supposed to do. Not what it did.”

This explanation seemed to brighten the spirits of my fellow columnists, as it slowly dawned on them that they too could now venture the occasional measured criticism of the previously inviolate Mr. Obama without risk of losing their intellectual credentials or place in the social register. The effect was like the lifting of a great burden, and we began to discuss a nagging question — how exactly to account for the curious disconnect between Mr. Obama’s intentions and his results?

“Clearly, this isn’t the Barack Obama any of us swooned for during the election,” offered Peggy Noonan. “As a candidate he was fresh, intellectual, and serious. Instead, as president, he has proven to be naive, detached and aloof. Nostradamus himself could not have predicted such an astonishing 180 degree transformation.”

“Indeed, how could anyone?” added Brooks. “The fellow was a success at everything he had ever attempted — being ethnically interesting, going to Harvard, getting elected, or writing autobiographies about being ethnically interesting and going to Harvard. It was simply inconceivable that there was a task he could actually fail at. I am forced to conclude his Harvard credentials may be a sham.”

Who can blame them? No one who attended Harvard could have seen it coming.