Classic Wolcott.
http://www.jameswolcott.com/
"As Firedoglake and other psychic healers diagnosed earlier this week, David Broder ain't nuthin but a horndog, a'pantin' all the time. He may fool Gwen Ifill, but he ain't no friend of mine. I can picture him and Chris Matthews poised at the edge of the marsh, nostrils twitching, ready to plash in and retrieve a pair of Clinton undies; meanwhile Jacob Weisberg waits back at the station wagon, preparing a tasty picnic lunch and wishing he were in the hunt instead of filling thermoses. Given how most of the Beltway elite have bowed and scraped like eunuchs for most of Bush's presidency, this aphrodisiac attack of Clinton arousal (prurience topped with prissy indignation) must be giving them a nice nostalgic nineties feeling; such days those were, when they could roll around in the gutter with Laura Ingraham and Barbara Olsen and mount their moral high horse at the same time, no easy trick."