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Saturday, June 24, 2006

d r i f t g l a s s: Sunday Morning Comin’ Down – June 18, 2006

d r i f t g l a s s: Sunday Morning Comin’ Down – Part 1.: "The Chris Matthews Show was lively for one and only one reason.

Matthews is a shill, and is usually firing blanks or blowing fat, bubbly kisses to the Bush White House while the bulk of his scuttlefish panelists line up to kiss whichever Administration ass is planted in front of them.

But once in a while he racks a live round, and it catches the lickspittle patrol wildly off-guard.

One such moment happened Sunday when the subject of Don Karleone came up, and his shift from indicted to unindicted co-conspirator. And for the most part, the panel was (per my gauzy, non-note-taken recollections) anxious to brush it back under the throw rug and move along to gleefully sawing the legs out from under the people who actually stand up to the criminal junta that runs the GOP...and then mocking them for being short.

So when Matthews wheeled the giggle gun around and fired this sort of thing off into the Kewl Kids Klubhouse (remember, all quotes approximate) -- “But the President did promise he’d fire the leaker. And indicted or not, we now know Rove is the leaker, and he’s not being fired. So is this where we’re at now? That the President of the United States can just lie to the American people about this…and that just OK?” – the sound of Joe Klein filling his Depends was actually audible.

And oh dog, if looks could kill?

Klein is a fifth columnist of the first water and was clearly amped up to do what he does for a living every week; namely shivving “fellow” Democrats in the kidneys while decrying the general state of awfulness and lack of Party unity and purpose.

So when Matthews lobbed that grenade into his fruit salad it was really quite amusing to see Joe squishing around in his own shit, eyes getting soft and piggy, trying to crouch down behind his own ridiculous beard, groping around for a glib and preferably monosyllabic answer that would not bring down the wrath of his corporate owners.

Hume, at least, is a straight-up thug who wears his brownshirt with a certain grunting, meatheaded pride. But Klein sleeps inside our perimeter and make his wage by draining off the blood of his “friends” by the pint and selling it to the bad guys as ink by the column-inch.

“Some may say” that the best creatures like Klein deserve is a napalm colonic capped off with a car-flare butt-plug.

“Some” may say that, but of course not me."
posted by driftglass @ 10:45 PM

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