Our president is a humanitarian, an Albert Schweitzer for the 21st century. So what thanks does he receive back home for his latest mission of mercy? He is sentenced in absentia to ignominy and impeachment for one sentence he read outloud last January as a favor to our British friends. Clearly our President Schweitzer did not anticipate that in his absence mass hysteria would break out on our shores. Rush home he must, to minister to heels who otherwise will not heal.
Speaking in single sentences himself, Washington Post columbinist E.J. Dionne suffers through another bout of Florida Fever. Or maybe he shouldn’t have gone to see A Mighty Wind. He begins: “While President Bush tours Africa, the winds of change are blowing at home.” Then he says this, even though the CIA never signed off on it: “They [i.e. these mighty winds of change] threaten his overwhelming political advantage on foreign policy and national security.” Eventually he concludes: “Democrats by the day are becoming less afraid of foreign policy.” But then the night falls and they’re afraid again. So at least by day it’s safe to be afraid, very much afraid.
A week ago, our nation celebrated Independence Day, commemorating its escape from the clutches of a foreign dynasty. Today we redouble our celebrations to mark our freedom from the claims of the House of Cuomo-Kennedy. It’s no doubt the most stunning dynastic collapse since the dissolution of Rodham-Boxer, who had been hoping to land all the parking valet slots in a Hillary regency.
Everybody always knew Andy Cuomo was a devil, but did anyone expect him to be the one to turn the spotlight on his own horns? As for sweet Kerry Kennedy, she sure seems the genuine article next to John F. Kerry Kennedy, a gawky French pretender to the presidential throne. Tragically for the former Princess Cuomo, her illicit polo-playing Prince Valiant escaped to Argentina, lest he be gored by raging bull Andy.
That’s when Dr. Howie Dean rode in, hoping to bridge this geographic divide. Under Bush, he announced, the U.S. has become like Argentina. He didn’t elaborate, but we will. Evita is Spanish for Hillary. It takes two to tango. Plus America and Argentina have a lot else in common. They each begin and end with the letter “a.” But so does Africa, something Dean never anticipated. Ever underestimated, Bush wins again. Better luck next time, Dr. Dean, if there is a next time, this side of the Pampas.
In miserable news, college dropout Peter Jennings became a U.S. citizen last month. Has anyone alerted the attorney general? It’s worth noting that Mr. Jennings will retain his Canadian citizenship, and presumably his West Bank, Gaza Strip, and Lebano-Syrian affiliations.
We’re certain Mr. J. is mighty upset with the discovery of the latest diary entries from the late Harry S Truman. Coverage so far has been remarkably subdued, particularly of the section in which the former president dictated pointers to Richard Nixon and the Rev. Billy Graham. As we know, a president of Mr. Truman’s party can claim executive privilege for all eternity, if necessary. Apparently this is one of those cases when necessity takes the upper hand. As one of our distraught agents notes, “Can you imagine if anyone but a Democrat had written these words? It would have made the mob scene in Young Frankenstein look like a Zen retreat.” We can imagine.
Probably something like an evening with Michael Savage on MSNBC. Was MSNBC wise to fire Savage for wishing a homosexual caller death from AIDS? The only thing wiser would have been if MSNBC had fired itself for hiring him in the first place. Plus there’s the cruelty involved in giving hope to Phil Donahue that he might have a slot to return to. All in all, it’s not been a good week for big talkers. Ann Coulter has caused embarrassment by resurrecting Tailgunner Joe McCarthy, but without insisting that he join AA first. Maybe she meant it as a joke on liberals, but it’s turned into a bigger joke on her. Finally, there’s new Cub manager Dusty Baker and his efforts to correlate skin color with performance under the hot summer sun. So how does he explain his success as a manager in the chill conditions of fogged-in San Francisco?
Talk is cheap, making the inability to talk on costly indeed. Michael Savage is history, but his place is secured by this Enemy of the Week prize, the first this fiscal year. If it’s any consolation, maybe the libs will now be cured of their notion that there is such a creature as a noble Savage.
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