Poor Ol' Scooter

It’s sad. I actually feel sorry for a Republican, though it’s hard to extend that to a guy named Scooter. I have my limits. I cannot say that name out loud without chuckling. Sometimes I say it just to amuse myself.

Hell, sometimes I watch a dozen or so otters do the Electric Slide across my patio and croon Sinatra songs into a hairbrush. There’s something about an upright otter that is just fundamentally wrong, but it *is* cute.

But Scooter. Dang. I’d have been the first one to take his law license, but just on general principles. A Republican named Scooter needs to do some time in McDonald’s purgatory, and maybe stand before a judge in the other way, before he’s allowed to practice law. It just seems proper. But whaddaya wanna bet he’s probably the only guy in the White House who *didn’t* do anything to Valerie Plame? Do you remember the reports during the dawn of that story? As soon as the White House knew the shit was hitting the fan, Cheney practically locked Scooter Libby out of the West Wing. The skipper’s little buddy. Scooter who? Don’t know ya, pal. Scooter saw the writing on the wall within a half hour after he arrived at work that morning and reports were that he stormed the halls threatening to take every one them down with him if they dared to hang that fiasco around his neck and light it on fire. God only knows what they counter-threatened, but they necklaced poor old Scooter for sure.

See what happens when you snuggle up with snakes, Scooter? Pity you decided to remain loyal to the guys who screwed you over. I’d love to know what really happened. C’mon. You can tell me. This will be better than the otters.