Wednesday, July 13, 2005
I feel for Karl Rove, really. Would I kid?
Just think about walking a mile in his tiny, sized 7 1/2 black winged tips and you get a sense of how tough it must be to be Bush's Think-a lator-ma- jig.
First of all, your nickname is "Turd Blossom". In other words, your best friend and the President of the United States thinks so much of you he identifies you with something emanating from a pile of cow shit. Now just because you're a vengeful, animus ridden attack dog for the failed spawn of a political family who believes primogeniture and Democracy go hand in hand is no reason to be saddled with a moniker typically associated with low life losers.
How fair is that?
Secondly, now that the whole world knows he outed a CIA operative and closed down a covert operation working to track nuclear proliferation, poor Karl must be glancing over his shoulder every where he swishes for a Langleyesque poisoned dart, poisoned umbrella or a poisoned pen from that pesky liberal media establishment he keeps telling us about. Every stamp the poor guy licks must taste like cyanide, every donut he gulps has to be washed down with milk and a universal antidote and every package that arrives at his front door is a Candy Gram for Mongo.
The poor guy can't walk on the streets for fear of a dark sedan careening across the sidewalk to crush his spine (Then again, invertabrates might not be at risk here) or sit down at a restaurant without wondering if the lovely young lady smiling at him from across the room isn't a femme fatale luring him to his end.
Can you imagine going home every night and wondering if the air conditioning isn't emitting an odorless gas that will fry your nerve endings and cause your brain to melt? Or worrying that you are being bombarded with high intensity microwaves that will slowly boil your insides like a Sunday pot roast?
Can you imagine what its like being Karl Rove? The fear? The angst? The uncertainty?
It's almost like being an Iraqi citizen or a US soldier in Baghdad.