An excerpt from his book, as summarized in Vanity Fair’s review of 2012’er books:
On the morning that Pawlenty was passed over as McCain’s V.P. pick, he took the dog out for a walk and, bending to scoop her poop, thought, “Well, this is the only number two I’ll be picking up today.” After giving himself a good chuckle, “I tucked that slightly crass, self-directed joke into my proverbial pocket, thinking it might be fun to share it at an appropriate moment during the Republican Convention the following week.” Such evaluations are subjective, difficult to adjudicate, but I think it possible that Pawlenty, or T-Paw, as his imaginary followers call him, may be a bigger crock than Mitt Romney.
What kind of guy has the, uh, “balls” to be this upset about losing the chance to be John McCain’s vice president? It’s a Tracey Jordan-esque anecdote, for its inability to humanize or resonate with the average man.
Similarly, apparently Pawlenty’s wife calls him “45” — as in, Forty-Fifth President. Now let’s not indulge in what our significant others have called us playfully one time or another. But seriously?