Conventional wisdom holds that the bigger they are, the harder they fall. If that's true, Scooter Libby could well be facing a tough landing.
Granted, our boy has hoed his own row, but even a tough bird like me can get a whiff tonight of how alone....how...well, bereft....it must feel right now, being the sole fall guy for the lyingest, cheatingist Apple Dumpling Gang that's ever occupied the White House.
Tonight, Scooter's alone with just his thoughts and a bottle of scotch, facing the threat of hard times and wondering why he's the guy that's getting tagged.
He's hurting, people, and needs our help. Practical advice. Tips for bumming cigs or pull-top cans of Vienna sausages from fellow prisoners. Jokes good enough to get him in good with the trustees.
Jump with me below the fold, people, and throw in with anything you've got that might give the Scoot-meister a bit of comfort on a cold, cold night.
I'll start, Scooter. Pour yourself a Scotch and listen up.
Yep, you're long, long past those heady, go-go days of summer. You know, back when you and Turdblossom and Abramoff and the Lord of Darkness were the Masters of the Universe?
Remember back in 2003, after you guys were well into your contrived war, and the world was your oyster? Jack would call, and the next thing you knew you and Frist and Guckert would end up down the hall in the Lincoln bedroom, sniffing lines off a dead hooker's ass, jonesin' for Taco Bell and joking about outing a CIA agent.
Now that, my friend, is the kind of story you can trade for smokes when you're in the Big House.
Good times, Scooter, good times.
Your turn, Kossacks. Weigh in with more stories. Tips. Links are good, too.
Anything to help a convicted Buscho fall guy make it through the cloak of darkness for yet another lonely, lonely night.