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CON­TIN­UED FROM PAGE I have to ad­mit, Kemp ap­palls me on a phys­i­cal level. My man looks like he got a crum­pled gro­cery sack for a head. My man looks like he comes from cen­tral cast­ing for the movie “Pleas­antville.” My man looks like they blended twelve high-school gym coaches from Ma­con and poured the gunk into an melted head mold. My man looks like he writes fan-fic­tion about Men’s Ware­house. My man looks like he’s tried to con­ceive a child on Robert E. Lee’s birth­day. My man looks like he’s go­ing to cruise the food court in Dun­woody right af­ter he pawns his saber col­lec­tion. When drunk dude­bros ask cops, “Do you know who my fa­ther is?” this is the fa­ther they’re re­fer­ring to. Kemp’s face looks like he’s ex­actly one mar­tini away from slur­ring the bus­boy at a coun­try club. In all hon­esty, pick­ing the worst thing about Kemp is not hard. Of all the can­cer­ous parts of our Sec­re­tary of State, the most grotesque is this: He’s a mon­ster straight from the past. Kemp wants to drag us back into his­tory, back to the days when Ge­or­gia meant mas­ters, and Jim Crow democ­racy, and be­ing laughed at by the rest of the world. He’s a dumber, uglier ver­sion of Trump — such a thing shouldn’t be sci­en­tif­i­cally pos­si­ble, but it has hap­pened, some­how. No won­der polls have him and Stacey Abrams neck and neck. Kemp is a typ­i­cal clue­less prep-school dunce. He’s so en­ti­tled, he thinks the gov­er­nor­ship be­longs to him. He’s so en­ti­tled, he doesn’t have to ex­plain pre­sid­ing over his own elec­tion. He’s so en­ti­tled, he thinks he can strip away the rights of oth­ers. Like, for in­stance, the right for LGBTQ peo­ple to ex­ist. How sat­is­fy­ing it will be in Novem­ber, when he dis­cov­ers what is ac­tu­ally com­ing to him: a long, sad trip back to Athens. Kemp can prance around with his shot­gun and his truck and try ev­ery pa­thetic lit­tle gim­mick in his book. But there is this thing called “the vot­ing pop­u­la­tion of Ge­or­gia” that he can’t get around. He knows it, I know it, we all know it. No won­der he’s so scared: The num­bers are not his friend. You’d panic too. I imag­ine him in his po­lit­i­cal re­tire­ment, sit­ting next to his faded UGA cheer­leader uni­form, scream­ing about mi­nor­ity vot­ers into the owl-haunted night. You have to pity him. Brian Kemp may find his sup­port­ers even­tu­ally for­give him. Math never will.

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