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View Diary: Supreme Dereliction of Command; Or, the Beginning of the Neocons' Campaign for John McCain (168 comments)

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  •  Of course they are going to blame us. (none)
    They certainly can't blame themselves, they've never done so, and don't know how. Some of these monkeys have been blaming people like me [and you] since the 60s. We lost them Vietnam; didn't you get the memo? I'm sure they sent you one, check your email. Check the pigeonholes in your rolltop.

    Bill Krystalnacht is just another rat making an early exit from a stinking ship. His cheese connection has warned him that the cat is sure to pounce if he doesn't scrub his fur and change his squat. As you elegantly point out, he didn't start out as Dubya's ho, and if he hurries, he can find another pimp before he's just too shopworn and round-heeled to walk those DC streets.

    And poor McCain, proud owner of the Tarnished Silver Mine. He has never faced a nationwide general election. Before he became Bush's Other [battered] Wife, he had some faint hope of seeming less awful, as one of the Keating Five that sent hundreds of thousands of good christian investors to the poor house, than some damned librul. After all, he reasoned, at least it wasn't a Chapaquiddick. And he might even have been right. Then. But now he has to face voters who will be reminded that the Keating Five have become the Keating Four-and-a-half; because Bush bought McCain's balls and then crushed them in front of the senator's face. On live TV. Oh yes. The American voters will remember. And the ones with Altsheimer's or ADD will have us to helpfully remind them; that's our job. I'm looking forward to it.

    But DHinMI, I really came over to your nice frontpager to ask for your help. Now, I know you're a busy kossak, but this diary desperately needs your inimitable touch. Armando was there, but it seems to be sweet Armando on the net this weekend. Don't know where he stashed his more fun-loving twin. I tried my hand, since the evil me is the one here posting [I sent saint sweetness to an undisclosed location] but I'm just an old f*rt with blunted fangs and weakened venom. It needs you, oh reality-based parser and pruner of the pompous and puerile among us. If ever a diary called out for your [occasionally divinely inspired] intervention, this one does. Just look out when you arrive. Within two paragraphs you'll know you've gone clear through the Twilight Zone and are over the border into the Realm of Chaos. Good Hunting.

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