By now, you’ve probably heard about Mark Sanford’s full page ad in The Post and Courier, the one in which he points the finger at everybody but himself for the recent turn of events that may ultimately derail his comeback campaign.

First, there’s his 14-year-old son who was uncomfortable at the Super Bowl party his dad had dragged him to. By Sanford’s account that whiny little shit moaned and groaned and cried his little eyes out until daddy took him home.

And then there’s the man who threw the party: GOP mover and shaker Chad Walldorf. Evidently, Walldorf’s bash was so wicked and depraved that the younger Sanford felt the need to flee. I imagine there were drunkards in lampshade fez hats, comely strip club co-eds offering lap dances for a bit of blow, and pulled pork priests offering pork rind communion wafers and mustard BBQ by the chalice.

And then’s there’s Jenny. Poor, misguided, undependable Jenny, who refused to take Sanford’s call after he had decided to ignore a court order — yet again — that prevented him from ever stepping foot in her house. Why Sanford didn’t go to his home in downtown Charleston is beyond me. Maybe he only has a 13 inch black and white TV. Heck, there’s a good chance he doesn’t even have cable. Only Sanford knows for sure and he ain’t telling. But the point is, Jenny should have know that her son was crying and that Mark was just trying to do the right thing. Under no circumstances did he intend to go to her bedoom and rifle through her panty drawer to see if she had purchased any frilly undergarments at the behest of her new paramour. Nope. No way. No how. You know and I know that Mark sat down in front of the TV and cradled his weeping son’s head in his lap and watched the Baltimore Raven’s celebrate Ray Lewis’ ability to escape justice, and he never got up until Jenny arrived.

And then there’s the P&C, that no-good liberal rag that has been behind Elizabeth Colbert Busch the whole time. Those bastards are no more than family court peeping toms, sick fucks who stand outside the court house and peer through the windows at readily available public records. Degenerates.

And then there’s the ever-noble Mark Sanford, a flawed man just trying to do right by his family and the good people of Charleston. He called. He cared. He tried to sneak out the back door of his ex-wife’s house when she pulled into the driveway. But despite his good intentions, he has been pilloried by the press and mocked by the masses. The members of S.C. Congressional delegation either refuse to talk about him to the media or they laugh when his name comes up. (For the former, see Jeff Duncan and Trey Gowdy. For the latter, see Tim Scott.)

Sadly, the only people who seem to be supporting Mark Sanford are self-hating GOPer gals who stand alone on street corners brandishing “Women for Sanford” signs and angry middle-aged chum hubbies who’ve been tossed overboard into the sea by their mean-spirited, gold-digging ex-wives. This may be South Carolina and all, but there simply aren’t enough of those sad souls to get elected. Misogyny will only get you so far.

And so will being a narcissistic asshole who would rather blame his own child than take responsibility for his own actions.

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