In a truly epic work of journalism, the Boston Globe presents a whiny insiderish take on all the sads of Warren losing. And losing badly.
It was debate day, and on the 33rd floor of the grand Bellagio hotel, high above a city of spectacle and risk, Senator Elizabeth Warren was ready to pray.
Pray? Warren? To herself?
It was a ritual she and her husband had developed with the Rev. Miniard Culpepper before every presidential debate. But that day in February, with Warren seemingly in need of a miracle to revive her campaign, the minister donned his lucky blue suit and prefaced his regular prayer with a rap.
“Look around see what you see: a lot of old boys who begin with a ‘B.’ A Bloomberg, a Buttigieg, a Bernie, a Biden. When the Big E gets going, they’ll all be a-hiding,” Culpepper recited,
Finally, a minister who worships the Big E. Warren.
Her campaign had set up what was supposed to be a victory party on an indoor tennis court, where supporters nibbled on meatballs garnished with orchids.
Meatballs garnished with orchids? Has any candidate deserved to lose more than Warren?