Style: A smug, monochrome bricolage of personality disorders.
Substance: Bragged about the size of his cock, but that was neither the most embarrassing nor the most self-absorbed thing he said. Dismissed whole swathes of military history, time-worn diplomatic standards, and Constitutional structure with casual, splenetic egocentrism. Met no argument or piece of evidence or proof of contradiction that could not be suffocated by repeated application of boastful disdain and fanciful polling numbers. Insisted that he would unceremoniously sanction war crimes — targeting the families of terrorists — with a justification based on either urban legend or his own self-serving imagination. His Halloween pumpkin scowl will be the last thing democracy sees before it dies.
Grade: Enormous, eternally flaccid penis.
Style: Starkly egg-sucking with flashes of constipated wit. Has been doing a pretty passable imitation of a human, but a little of his android stuffing came out and lingered on his lip in a way that would make you feel sorry if it happened to a person. (Alternate theory from those who believe Cruz to be a carbon-based life form: dried booger, and he ate it.)
Substance: His only passion is for the Constitution — frozen in time as a dead, dry thing. Cruz is a strict constructionist necrophiliac. Who would they find to bake a cake for THAT wedding? Probably thinks he’s being crafty to keep his attacks on Trump to Trump’s violations of conservative orthodoxy, but that only means his binary robot mind doesn’t understand Trump’s appeal, which is based in dark magicks and blood ritual.
Grade: Chewing on styrofoam.
Style: Righteous excuse-ginning: That wasn’t Grandpa that farted this time, OK? Continues to warm himself by the dumpster fire of his party, peevishly insisting that you can at least cook a can of beans over it, and aren’t beans delicious? Everyone loves beans! Frrrrappppppt.
Substance: Just when everything was deteriorating into shit-stirred chaos, brought up a woman at a rally whose son committed suicide — an injection of seriousness that itself would seem cheap, except these things have devolved so badly into pettiness and absentminded cruelty that any reminder of human frailty and the cost of policy mistakes is welcome. Could even be forgiven for turning a simple question about civil rights into a Mensa word problem and still having little to no control over his flipper hands.
Grade: Wet cardboard box.
Style: Blissfully unaware
Substance: The sound of one gifted hand clapping
Grade: Television static
Style: Truculently vapid. I think this is the debate when his voice finally changed and, in a timely fashion, his elocutive balls dropped. Marco has discovered he has a taste for the jugular, but his Chiclet teeth could never penetrate the sun-leathered rhino skin that surrounds Trump’s neck wattle. Got a good line in about yoga — but now we have to think about these guys doing yoga.
Substance: Has a coherent foreign policy that’s just as dangerous as Trump’s jumble of myopia and greed. Provided a debate highlight when he whined that it is “unfair” to “politicize” the Flint water crisis, since, he said, it’s not like someone got up in the morning and intended to poison everyone. It’s good to know that some things, like conservatives’ inability to comprehend both individual and systemic racism, remain consistent from cycle to cycle.
Grade: A lunchbox filled with sand.