Actually, it does, because the only non-consecutive president (Grover Cleveland) had the exact same problem. His Second Term was a fucking disaster. So much so that Republicans held the White House for 16 years after his benighted second term.
Visit President Rutherford B. Hayes' wooded estate named Spiegel Grove, home of America's first presidential library. Tour the president's 31-room Victorian mansion, see his tomb, visit the newly renovated museum, explore the library and walk the mile of paved trails.
www.rbhayes.org
Cleveland had been the lamest of lame ducks for more than two years. As he himself admitted, there was not a single senator he could talk to in confidence. Prominent Democratic leaders had told him to his face that they would never step through the White House door again. The president stopped holding parties; so few of Washington’s elite would accept an invitation. Even people asking favors had stopped writing him letters -- always a terrible sign. “But really, kicking the administration nowadays is considered almost as bad form as defiling a grave,” John Hay wrote. “You have never seen anything so dead…. Your fat friend has never a soul to say a good word for him, except sometimes Gray in the Senate and Wilson in the House, and if they grow too strong in his praise, both sides of the House burst out in derisive laughter.” As for policy, the president was hemmed in by a Congress so overwhelmingly Republican that he might as well not have bothered to send in his annual message. In the off-year elections, just about every House seat from Bangor to San Francisco Bay had been lost. The former Speaker’s prediction that Democratic congressmen would die in trenches, until they ran out of trenches, had been more than fulfilled -- and Grover Cleveland got much of the blame. “The administration has never lost a chance of blundering and betraying the interests of the country,” a Republican wrote. “Cleveland does not seem to have a friend in the world.”
Not even in his own party, it seemed. From other Democrats came the choicest invective. The outgoing president seemed to inspire it. “I hate the very ground that man walks on,” Alabama’s senior senator growled. South Carolina’s governor Ben Tillman promised constituents that when he became senator, he would stick a pitchfork in “that fat bag of beef in the White House,” and “Pitchfork Ben” he would be known as, the rest of his days. “That unspeakable Mugwump and oleaginous mystery,” a New Yorker snarled. “I don’t know what Mr. Cleveland is doing in your state,” a leading Virginia politician wrote a friend, ”but he has done more to disintegrate the Democracy of Virginia than any hundred men have done since the war.” The worst insult another critic could make of a Louisville editor was to pronounce him “as dead as Cleveland and [smelling] worse, if that be possible.” Comparing him to the party’s standard-bearer in 1896, young William Jennings Bryan, was, to one western Democrat, like comparing “an intellectual thunderbolt” to “a keg of sour beer.” “Cleveland thinks from the standpoint of the plutocrat,” he wrote, “Bryan from that of the people. The first was an old libertine wallowing around with disreputable widows; the last is the Sir Galahad of American politics.”