Obama's "Pulp Fiction" strategy

That's how you're gonna beat 'em, Butch. They keep underestimating you.

I love listening to how the Really Smart People ("Check out the big brain on Brett!") keep explaining how they're going to beat Barack Obama. And yet here we are: The Democratic primaries are nearly over and Obama is riding away on Zed's bike with the pretty birl, and he's the last man standing.

Not only is he Butch, he's also the Wolf.

But that may be flogging the metaphor a bit too much. Onward.

Butch was supposed to go down in Round 5:

MARSELLUS (OS)
In the fifth, your ass goes down.

Butch nods his head: "yes."

MARSELLUS (OS)
Say it!

BUTCH
In the fifth, my ass goes down.

And as we know, Butch's ass did not go down in the fifth:

The SOUND of the CAR RADIO can be heard coming from inside.

SPORTSCASTER #1 (OS)
...Coolidge was out of there faster than I've ever seen a victorious boxer vacate the ring. Do you think he knew Willis was dead?

SPORTSCASTER #2 (OS)
My guess would be yes, Richard. I could see from my position here, the frenzy in his eyes give way to the realization of what he was doing. I think any man would've left the ring that fast.

And so Marcellus scoured the earth to get Butch, turning his trainer over to the dogs (ewww) and posting Vincent, with a very nasty gun, in Butch's apartment. Just in case. Only Vincent didn't believe Butch would actually come back to the apartment, because who in their right mind? And while Vincent was sitting on the crapper, Butch was toasting a PopTart and picking up the very nasty gun. With which he ended Vincent's very nasty life.

Which is when Butch uttered the words up top. Of course things got messed up a bit when Butch bumped into Marcellus on the street, so to speak. After that, it took a bit of effort, luck and courage not only to escape the Gimp and Zed, but to escape Marcellus' vengeance. But in the end, despite a busted-up face, Butch got the money, his watch, the girl, the bike and a clean getaway. Not a bad day's work.

Meanwhile, back to 2007. From the beginning, Barack Obama knew his campaign didn't have much hope. His ass was also supposed to go down in the fifth: February 5th, to be exact. Super Tuesday. Unfortunately for her, as for Marcellus and the "poor unfortunate Mr. Floyd," Obama came out fighting as if he expected to win. When he did win, no one could believe. Perhaps not even the candidate. Then the March string of victories followed, only to have Ohio and Texas and Pennsylvania until, at last, with his big win in North Carolina and narrow loss in Indiana, Obama secured his victory.

Unlike Butch, however, Obama loses no privileges, L.A. or otherwise. It's Hillary who has to leave, back to the Senate and New York, while Obama now faces a general election in which his greatest opponent will not be the other guy in the ring, John "Mr Floyd" McCain, but all the bad guys who want the fight fixed and will do anything to make it so. It's not Marcellus Obama has to worry about but Karl Rove and his spawn, the Swift Boaters and corporate media liars and self-interested pseudo-patriots who don't care about how many Americans die or live in misery as long as they get more and more wealthy. But like Butch, the same tactic will continue: Let them underestimate him. They don't know how he won, and they won't figure it out even when he's in the White House.

Obama's got win, he's got the pretty girl, and he's got the getaway vehicle. It's not Zed's bike, however. It's the millions of us who understand that we are the future of politics in America and not the old school has-beens inside the Beltway.

Zed's dead, baby, Zed's dead.