They don’t make Jews like Jesus any more — or nutbars like Kinky Friedman

With his school prayer and Ten Commandments in the classroom comments, he sounds so determined to get tight in bed with the Religious Right as to make Rick Perry look chaste. Yet, many of the RR probably don’t appreciate his comment that “those who don’t love Jesus can go to hell,” at least not the salty language part.

And, the RR sure isn’t hopping between the sheets with some guy who wants to legalize grass, either.

Kinky is NOT Jesse Ventura. Ventura got himself elected mayor of a mid-sized city before running for governor in Minnesota. Now, while governor, he quickly started looking like just another politician, trying to get his wife on the government dole and such. But he was still light-years ahead of Friedman.

As for other entertainer-politicians to whom Friedman compares himself? Reagan was giving his rubber-chicken political speech for years before running for governor. Schwartzenegger married into politics.

AND, in both cases … although often underinformed, they were:
A. Closer to the mainstream than Kinky, and
B. Major party candidates with handlers, etc. to cover their gaffes and information blanks. Kinky’s still running his campaign like a lounge show.

Now, I voted Green for president in 2004, and if the Green gubernatorial candidate qualifies for official write-in status, I’ll pull that lever again, there being no Social Democratic party in the U.S.

Chris Bell, among the three other top-tier ballot line candidates, is starting to catch fire with the Texas parks funding issue, but only a bit. If he could only sound like he was catching fire, it might be different.

Two years ago, when I saw my first Kinky for Governor bumper sticker, the idea sounded interesting, provocative and even worthwhile. But, as his repetitive nightclub jokes-and-schtick routine wears thin (sorry, Kinky, there’s no Texas Catskills in the gubernatorial race), it is, while not nightmarish, at least sounding like an old 78RPMer, having finished playing its song, endlessly slamming the needle against the label at the center.