“The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.”
–Dante Aleghieri

14 months to the expiration date on the most hair-raisingly treasonous abuse of public trust seen in a developed, first-world country since the Third Reich, and now, all of a sudden, everyone’s an armchair Keith Olbermann.
All the poisons that lurk in the mud are beginning to hatch out, in the form of more mud from the mouths of lackeys, concubines and other secret-keeping vermin who just can’t seem to keep the bad pork down anymore.
It’s a rash of Hey-What-Do-You-Know?-I-Just-Found-My-Long-Lost-Whistle-type-Whistleblowers. Or: Now That The Good Ship Lobby-Pop is Sinking, I Am Trumpeting My Innocence and Moral Relevance-type Whistleblowers.
Snitches are revolting enough. A late snitch really deserves a whole new English Basement to be dug out under Hell.
Take, for example, Former White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan, who I once nicknamed “The Mouthpiece of Human Evil” and/or the “The Undertaker of Information” because he took perfectly healthy words and brutally mangled all the truth out of them, in order to deliver his statements freshly lifeless, in a clean white coffin.
McClellan’s new book says he was lied to about the outing of CIA operative Valerie Plame, and “unknowingly” lied to the American Public….which is like saying the butcher “unknowingly” plastic-wrapped the meat into Styrofoam shells before realizing it was a dead animal.
I was briefly in the White House Press Corps (or Press Corpse), sitting in front of McClellan during the Valerie Plame Beatdown of ’05. It was like eating diabetic Jell-o with a plastic spoon.
A few months later, McClellan and I were on the same plane to DC coming home from Vegas.
He was flying coach, and looked like the better angels of his conscience had been heel-kicking him in the kidneys for weeks. His eyes had the type of round, black bruises around them one gets from prolonged, weeping fits of guilt and self-loathing. His big soft wife was petting him like a sick child. He was trying to read the same terribly abused Tom Clancy novel that it looked like he’d been trying to read for months, and had dropped in the bathtub so many times it had become completely round, like a pom-pom.
My point: He looked exactly like a man that knew he’d done something unforgivable, and that was back in ’06.
And then, of course, there’s the unthinkable Judith Regan.
(Cue Pink Floyd soundtrack: Ooooh, I need a dirty woman…..)
Ms. Regan recently filed a $100 million lawsuit against HarperCollins, yet another holding in Rupert Murdoch’s ubiquitous Vatican of propaganda, ostensibly to flip the script on her dismissal following the O. J. Simpson “If I Did It” fiasco.
Ms. Regan had been Lady Macbeth-ing over at News Corporation for quite some time, and doesn’t appreciate how they don’t seem to appreciate everything she did for them.
Like, for example, doing her author Bernie Kerik, in a love nest next to Ground Zero while publishing Kerik’s draping of the post-9/11 American flag about himself in, “The Lost Son: A Life in Pursuit of Justice.”
She apparently learned a thing or three during these bestial fits of passion.
The Regan Woman, as Frank Rich refers to her, “knows a lot about Mr. Kerik, Mr. Giuliani and the Murdoch empire. And she could talk.”
She might even be more shrill than usual on the topic Rich identified from the lawsuit as:
“A senior executive in the News Corporation organization told Regan that he believed she had information about Kerik that, if disclosed, would harm Giuliani’s presidential campaign. This executive advised Regan to lie to, and to withhold information from, investigators concerning Kerik.'”
Italics mine.
I was on Judith Regan’s TV show once. She hadn’t actually read my book, so she asked me to comment extensively on the Charles Bukowski quote I used on the first page. She knows how to massage a storyline, alright.
Even the Archbishop of Canterbury dusted off his chausibles and jumped on this late dogpile of condemnation against American Imperial expansion:
“There is something about western modernity which really does eat away at the soul…We have only one global hegemonic power. It is not accumulating territory: it is trying to accumulate influence and control. That’s not working.”
Hey, thanks for noticing, Padrino.
And finally, in her quest for justice, Heather Mills McCartney is threatening to release videotapes from her couples therapy sessions, begging the question: Paul? You let her tape those? Hope you brought your guitar.
What unthinkable wild card will it take to get Cheney impeached anyway: immigrant ovens?
Amen, Fiends.