If that's a frickin' "windup" then grits ain't groceries, eggs ain't poultry and mona lisa was indeed a frickin' man

"If one is to rule, and to continue ruling, one must be able to dislocate the sense of reality,” Orwell writes somewhere in 1984. Your sense of reality has got to be pretty much torn from its socket to consider the studly Dick to be “winding up.” There ain’t nothin’ wound in that picture. And very little that’s “up.” The Dickster looks more like something a kid should be pushing across the White House lawn with a spoon during the annual Easter Egg Roll. Course a kid with a spoon couldn’t do that. You’d need a construction worker drivin’ at least a Bobcat for that task.

Here’s my caption: “An overweight Vice President, standing well in front of the pitcher’s mound in hopes of reaching home plate with his feeble throwing arm, elevates his left heel about one inch off the grass and extends his leg almost as if he is stepping across a puddle, in preparation for a wobbly throw clocked at 18.2 miles per hour.' Burn it in there Dick.

"wind up" ... my ass.