Cry On, Sister!

So the Granite State crumbled in the face of some tears. Does that really surprise anyone? Not me. I say "Let it rain, Hillary. It's morning in mascara-streaked America and I love it!"

First things first. Were the tears real? Tough to say, but my money's on yes. Face the facts. These guys have been going non-stop for months now. (Yes, yes, except Fred "Terri Schiavo showed more enthusiasm" Thompson.) At this point, the candidates are so fatigued they're basically guinea pigs in some horribly misguided Psych 101 sleep-deprivation experiment. It's a wonder one of them hasn't sucker-punched an overly inquisitive soccer mom by now. Me? If I get anything less than seven hours a night, I'll breakdown if the barista at Starbucks asks me to repeat my order.

But what if the tears were fake? Well, if they were, kudos Madame Senator. Crying on command is a very impressive skill. Seriously, Sally Field owes her entire career to the feat of ocular lubrication.

And that's what I don't understand. All these pundits prattling on about how a female candidate shouldn't cry. The hell she shouldn't! The ability to cry on command is just about the greatest trait I can think of for a Commander-in-Chief. Think about it. Nothing on Earth is more uncomfortable than a woman crying. A person would do anything to make it stop. Damn, my friend Robin has gotten out of more speeding tickets, awkward first dates, jury duty assignments, and, I think, a manslaughter charge based on her ability to moist the peepers. That's power, people. (Although, truth be told, this only works for women. I once cried to try to get out of a speeding ticket and the cop just rolled his eyes and radioed in an Amber Alert for my balls.)

Trust me. Crying is not weakness. We have enough nuclear weapons to blow up the world several times over. Even Clay Aiken would look tough if his finger had access to The Button. We need to focus on what a blubbering president could accomplish. Kim Jong Il threatening to revive his nuclear program? Whatever. Just lock him in a room with the Hillary McImapersonwithfeelingstoo and watch him sign over not only inspection of all uranium-enrichment programs but also a promise to call when he says he will and that romantic weekend away in the Berkshires he keeps rescheduling.

Now, I'm not advocating crying all the time. That would be psychotic. But a savvy woman knows exactly when and where to play the saline card. I suspect Hillary is exactly this person. Frankly, her tear ducts were probably as surprised to be called upon for service as would her calves had they been asked to run the Boston Marathon. And yet, they answered the call.

So enough with the taunts of "Cry me a river, Hillary." Please. Go on, girl. Cry me an exit strategy! Dab away, Madame President. Let's make the other nations uncomfortable enough to once again let us do whatever we please. The world is our Kleenex.