Fucked

Seriously.

I can no longer keep up, let alone follow the plots cooked up by the perpetrators of our new Pox Americana, the practitioners of dipstick diplomacy led by our chief denier and destroyer. (If it were not for Iraq, I do believe there is every chance we would never again see the letters "W" and "IQ" in the very same sentence.)

For nearly six years, from the rabbinical Wolf Blitzer to the rabid Chris Matthews, I have been assaulted 365/12/52/24/7 by the never-ending exploits of a gang of flag-clad thugs, avid proponents of an Imperial Vice-Presidency; a gang that cannot shoot straight (except at one another or at the U.S. Constitution). Too busy to keep up with all the blogging, I am sustained chiefly by my fix of Frank Rich's weekly essays, his valiant (and brilliant) reminders that a counter-Coulter does in fact exist.

Six hundred and sixty-six days more -- 666. When you leave the Oval Office, sir, be careful not to get your tail caught on the door.