Plain As The Dick On Your Face, Dept.

Sen. Craig to police: 'I'm not gay' - Yahoo! News

Okay, let's get one thing straight: Senator Larry Craig is not gay. Alright?

He himself has taken every opportunity to state and restate this indisputable fact. He is utterly, totally, unquestionably not gay.

Does he like enthusiastically to fellate strangers in public places until they shoot their stallion loads down his greedy throat? Yes, of course, sure. But that does not make him gay. Okay?

Does he like to solicit hung dudes in bathrooms, back rooms, and back alleys to fuck him like the naughty rag doll he is? Naturally, why not? But that does not make him gay. Got it?

That a distinguished public servant such as Senator Craig should have his name and reputation besmirched by accusations of homosexuality just because he's an inveterate cockgobbler and poopchuter is a tragic commentary on our society. Now, granted, he does get antsy when his cum gauge reads below "Half". And, yes, he does hire his burly male staff based on their willingness to "role play" with him during all-night sessions of Congress. But that doesn't mean he's a pansy, a nancy, a lavender lad. If anything, it means he's such a man that he can tolerate only their masculine company in the sweaty generative act.

So, before you go calling anybody "gay" or "queer" or "sexual predator" or "amoral disease vector" or anything, look beyond his insatiable appetite for tube steak and look into his heart. For there you will see a one-hundred-percent man's man and a conservative patriot too.
Who only occasionally feels the need to deep-throat rough trade in a reeking men's-room stall.

Another Anti-Gay Cocksucker Goes Down, Dept.

Craig Arrested, Pleads Guilty Following Incident in Airport Restroom but Says He Did Nothing Wrong

Okay, this has now reached epidemic proportions. Three-term conservative Idaho Senator Larry "Sweetcheeks" Craig has been pinched in an airport bathroom sting for "lewd conduct." Craig, it should by now go without saying, is an opponent of gay marriage and of the extension of federal hate crime protection to gay and lesbian victims.

Whoopsie.

Craig, around whom rumors of cocaine use and Congressional page-turning have swirled since 1982, pled guilty to the misdemeanor then subsequently recanted. Possibly when he remembered that he's a pillar of a political party that would advocate branding for homosexuals if it could just swing a few fence-sitting votes.

Let me repeat this for those who haven't been listening. If a legislator is virulently anti-gay rights, anti-gay marriage, anti-gay existence, apply the Hamlet Test: doth the lady protest too much? Larry sho'nuff did. And thereby the toilet play was the thing to catch the conscience of a closeted, self-hating, opportunist sex predator weasel.

Dealing Oneself the Royal Flush, Dept.

Officials say Gonzales has resigned - Yahoo! News

In the most breaking of news, Li'l Albertito Gonzales is resigning from his post as Attorney General.

The 52-year-old weasel is reported to have handed in his resignation on Friday to the one man in government who couldn't smell his shit.

I can't imagine what possible euphemistic circumlocution Albertito will offer as the reason for his resignation, given that "to spend more time with my family" has recently been so overworked by administration ship-jumpers it's as tired as a twelve-year-old at a Michael Jackson sleep-over. Maybe he'll break with all precedent and tell us the truth: having managed to alienate everyone in Washington with even a nodding acquaintance with the concept of "rule of law", he's now pulling up stakes to go somewhere where people will truly appreciate his distinctive demolitionist touch with judicial systems. Like Kazakhstan.

At this point, I'd say justice has been done except that Li'l Albertito has been doing Justice so vigorously over the last two years that to restate this point would be to gild the turd, so to speak.

Instead, let's break a bottle on his hull and send him hurtling on his way; the dreadnought that once was, now a rowboat with one oar.

Cuchi-cuchi Cooking, Dept.

Simply Delicioso - TV - Review - New York Times

The link above is to a nice little New York Times takedown of Food Network "star", Ingrid Hoffman. She's characterized in the piece in two ways that I found interesting.

First, as "the country's pre-eminent cleavage cook", eclipsing reigning Kleavage Kween, Giada De Laurentiis. Now, regular readers will know my history of odd (and likely disappointed) Google hits on this blog for "Giada De Laurentiis cleavage". Imagine, then, my surprise when I started exclusively getting hits for "Ingrid Hoffman cleavage" after my initial piece on La Ingrid. If any one thing could be considered an indicator of the extent to which this Colombian coquette has wormed her way into America's heart like, say, a heartworm, it's this subtle Google hipcheck to po' li'l Giada.

Second, the NYT reviewer criticizes Hoffman and her program as "less an authentic treatment of Latin cooking than an air of manufactured '70s Latin style." and goes on to invoke Hispanic malaprop jumpsuit goddess Charo.

And that's where I have to object strenuously.

I remember Charo. I watched Charo. I enjoyed Charo. You, Ingrid Hoffman, are no Charo! To begin with, Charo was so kitsch-fab that her very presence could bleach downy lip hair at twenty paces. Charo had va-voom to go with her bazooms. Charo even had actual discernible talents, not least among which was her Segovia-mentored guitar playing. Ingrid Hoffman, by contrast, is a blowsy bottle blonde who desperately wants to make "delicioso!" a catchphrase on a par with "Yum-O!" and "Bam!". She also desperately wants to convince viewers that the crap she's generating in her retro kitchen is somehow--¡arriba! ¡arriba!--"Latino fusion" cooking, when everyone knows that "fusion" is restaurant shorthand for "fuck no, I don't know how to cook this shit authentically, so I'm adding truffle foam and ponzu vinegar to make it, you know, fuse."

Ingrid Hoffman is not a chef, okay? Let's sweep that notion off the table right away. She's a demographic place-keeper designed to attract Latina viewers to Food Network the way Paula Deen is meant to attract fat Southern women (please to excuse redundancy) and Rachael Ray ADD-sufferers with Tourette's. My personal hope is that she (along with most of the on-air poisonalities at Food Network, frankly) will soon be gathered up in the Bad TV Rapture and...excuse me? what's the Bad TV Rapture? More on it at some later date. But trust me, network programmers are going to have some BIG fucking holes to fill in their prime-time schedules.

Welcome, Parents and Students, to Graduation Day at Jennifer Lopez High, Dept.

So, we're driving along Riggs Road in charming Hyattsville, Maryland, home to at least one Cluck U. chicken outlet and just south of East-West Highway, when I look over and see a building. On said building, a sign that reads "César Chávez Elementary School". Now, at first, this was unsurprising. Hyattsville and neighboring Langley Park are demographically weighted towards Hispanics or Latinos or People Whose First Language Is Spanish But Who Nevertheless Manifest A Stubborn Unwillingness To Associate Themselves Even Tangentially With Spain Presumably Because Of Whatever Colonial-Era Baggage Some Might Attach To That Association Despite The Fact That Said Association Means Less Than A Gnat's Fart In Twenty-First Century America. There are usually very many People of Spanish Speech bustling along that nearby stretch of University Boulevard that wedges pupuserias and Peruvian chicken joints up against tandoori restaurants and auto parts outlets. Said people like to play a game presumably popular back in their native El Salvador or Honduras or Mexico. The game is a little bit like the arcade favorite, Frogger. However, in this case, a woman, say, in spray-painted jeans, sequined halter, and a tragic muffintop will try to navigate three lanes of viciously-fast traffic not by hopping back and forth and side-to-side like ol' Frogger but by plowing straight ahead and praying to the Virgin of Guadalupe for protection.
Unsurprisingly, there is a high rate of traffic fatalities along University Boulevard beneath the glow of the Peruvian chicken signs.

Which has little to do with my thoughts regarding César Chávez Elementary School. So, I see this sign and, as noted above, am initially unsurprised. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder: why? Why "César Chávez"? Now, Chávez was undoubtedly a great man, on a par with Martin Luther King Jr. as an American civil rights leader as well as a committed animal rights advocate and a champion of the dignity of honest labor. But we're thousands of miles from Chavez's stomping grounds, not a lettuce leaf or grape to be picked anywhere inside the Beltway.
And then it struck me.
Latino America is suffering from Role Model Deficiency Syndrome (RMDS).

I should've seen the signs. Ghetto-ized awards shows with the same six presenters being shuttled frantically from one red carpet to the next like the handful of soldiers a desperate commander repeatedly marches pasts his castle parapets to deceive his besiegers. Jimmy Smits, Edward James Olmos, Héctor Elizondo, Eva Longoria, Daisy Fuentes, Gloria Estefan. Hustled from dais to limo to hit breathlessly their marks at the Latin Grammys or the Alma Awards or the Hispanic Heritage Awards or the... Now, the Latino strain of RMDS is different from the one that has beset the African-American community for years. For, while Latinos suffer from RMDS-S (for "scarcity"), African-Americans are plagued by RMDS-R (for "respectability"). I mean, sure, you can scare up lots of Black celebrities. But how many won't have outstanding bench warrants, paternity suits, parole violations, statutory rape charges, or dogfighting/cockfighting/bullbaiting operations in their recent pasts? That's why America loves itself some Denzel and Beyoncé and Latifah and Will and Oprah. Not a whiff o'scandal about these fine folk. And if some of them are only oh-kay actors or singers or what-have-you, well, that's just the price we as a nation must pay for apparent rectitude among our minority performers.

Returning, then, to César Chávez Elementary School, I ask you, my indulgent readers, to make an effort. Try each day to elevate a Latino or Latina just a bit in order that the community might have a larger pool of candidates from which to draw for commemoratory purposes. Take the cast of Ugly Betty, for example. Plenty of Hispanics on that show and no scandal attached to any of them yet. Or Vicki Carr. President Ford called her his favorite Mexican dish in what was hopefully an unscripted remark. Or take the field of sports. Most any team in professional baseball is chock-a-block with Dominicans who've had to share an island with Haiti, so you know they're no strangers to hardship. The halls of government, eh, not so much. But, yeah, show business and baseball, both fertile breeding grounds for quality Hispanics. Take a moment, won't you? So that your children and your children's children won't have to attend Alberto Gonzales Middle School.
Do it for them.
For they are our future.
I thank you.

America's English Rose...or something, Dept.

Bush's daughter, Jenna, engaged - Yahoo! News

Just as our nation's collective heart was on the verge of being irremediably broken by the unanticipated departure of Karl "I skullfucked my grandmother to win Ohio" Rove, it is just as suddenly soothed by the healing balm of a First Daughter engagement!

Oh, how deliriously happy for the First Family! Little Jenna, whom we first met as a precocious problem drinker, has found true love! Think of how proud and happy the First Lady must be, just as any woman, any mother would be: to carry a daughter, along with her slim'n'waspish twin, to term, to bear her, feed her, raise her, teach her, comfort her when Life deals her nasty cuffs, all in preparation for the happy, happy day when she tells her mother she's going to link her life and destiny to those of of a generic party apparatchik. Is that not every mother's dream?!

Let us raise a glass of near-beer, then, to Jenna Bush and whatever the fuck his name is. May their marriage be joyful, their issue plentiful. And let us hope that more similarly-distracting news spills forth from the Bush White House in the upcoming weeks and months. For it didn't matter what tunes the band played on the Titanic, so long as they kept on playing.

Holy Cow! I Think He's Gonna Make It!, Dept.

Phil Rizzuto, Yankees' Hall of Fame shortstop and longtime broadcaster, dies at 89 - MLB - Yahoo! Sports

"The Scooter", Phil Rizzuto, was inducted into Celestial Cooperstown yesterday.

Now, your sobsister is not much of a baseball fan (or football fan or basketball or hockey or curling or...) but the sound of The Scooter's commentary during Yankee games was the sound of my childhood. My father was a die-hard fan from the glory days of Mantle and Maris through every dip and peak in their fortunes right up until the day he died. So, summer was scored by televised nasal yelps that echoed my father's (and presumably every other Yankee fan's) exclamations from the couch to the television. Rizzuto had been a good, even great, player, and he was at least as good a representative for the men in their easy chairs, beer in one fist, wispy Kent in the other.

Rizzuto's aversion to profanity was legend. And this is my one Phil Rizzuto anecdote:

In Rizzuto's day, the broadcast booth at Yankee Stadium was not what one might call "sound-proof". Crowd noise leaked in constantly. Well, one day, a fan decided to start heckling Rizzuto. And by "heckle", I mean, bon mots like "PHIL, you SUCK!" and "Hey, PHIL, fuck YOU!" and the like. This went on for a little while, all clearly audible to Rizzuto and his broadcast partner, as well to the audience at home. Rizzuto tried at first to ignore it, then, when it defeated this attempt, to joke it away. Finally, when Rizzuto's boiling point had been presumably reached, he raised his voice and said, "Aw, ya...ya huckleberry!"

Ave atque vale, Phil Rizzuto.

Dangling over the Piazzale Loreto, Dept.

Karl Rove to resign at end of August - Yahoo! News

So, li'l Karl Rove, DJ Karly Karl, the Karlminator, Karlo the Magnificent, Karl McKarlypants, is stepping down at the end of August to convene his demonic coven where fresh young flesh is more plentiful "for the sake of (his) family."

That is so frackin' touching, I may dissolve into a pool of bile and tears.

So, let's mark our calendars, kids, and be sure to convene en masse on Pennsylvania Avenue at month's end to give our li'l Turd Blossom an old-fashioned Mussolini Retirement Party, 'mkay?

'Cause he's earned it, you know, in so very many special ways.

All Politics Is Oral, Dept.

Hey, kids, it's Cocksucking Thursday and you know what that means!!

Two, not one but TWO stories of earnest, Godfearing, conservative Republicans who can't help but feed their insatiable appetite for the blood-engorged man-thing!

First off, we have Florida State Senator Bob Allen who--fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy ride on the majestic Bullshit River--claims that he offered a Black undercover cop twenty bucks to suck the cop's dick in a public men's room because he was afraid of the big Black men walking around the park outside. A hair-of-the-dog-that's-about-to-bite-you strategy, from the sounds of it. He also later claimed that he was only in the men's room because of inclement weather....and cue "It's Raining Men". Senator Allen had been voted 2007 Police Union Lawmaker of the Year. Quite so, what with all the paying and the dickgobbling he provides our men in blue. Superduper-ironically, however, Allen had recently sponsored a failed bill that would've tightened the state's prohibition on public sex. He, it almost goes without saying, has also been a supporter of amending the Sideshow State's constitution to ban same-sex marriage and had opposed a bill to curb bullying of gay students. Crimestoppers' Textbook: men who love to gargle jizz can often be detected by their anti-gay voting records.

Meanwhile, over in Hoosier country, another fellow, Glenn Murphy, who was recently elected leader of the Young Republican National Federation, has been forced to step down amid charges that he sexually assaulted another fellow after a Young Republicans party. How, precisely, did he do this? Well, at the house of the victim's sister, we find both fellows pretty well tuckered out after getting shitfaced the night before. The victim wakes the following morning and finds Murphy breaking his fast with a healthy serving of tube steak. The victim, understandably, asks Murphy what he is doing. According to the police report, Murphy answered that he was holding his dick with one hand and sucking the victim's dick with his mouth. Points for honesty! Well, wouldn't you know it, just ten days later, Murphy resigns his chairmanship of the Clark County, IN Republican Party and his presidency of the Young Republicans and e-mails a letter to media outlets announcing his resignation due to an unexpected business opportunity that would be incompatible with holding partisan political office. Lucky duck! Lucky cocksucking duck! Oh, and back in '98, a 21-year-old male apparently filed a similar report claiming ol' Murph tried to swallow his baby baton while he was sleeping but charges were never filed. Imagine that! The GOP opens its, umm, arms, let's say, and welcomes this sex offender into its, umm, ranks, and even promotes him to a position of responsibility and authority over its young, hott, hung, umm, members. It truly is a Big Cocksucking Tent over there.

So, the next time someone tells you that the Republican Party is nothing but a fetid snake-pit of virulent homophobia, just point to Murphy and Allen and say, "Nuh-uh! 'GOP' stands for 'Gay Oral Parties', as far as I'm concerned, Your Eminence! Now, peel that altar boy off your face and let's get back to our backgammon game!"

UPDATE: Glenn Murphy--through his repellently-oleaginous mouthpiece, of course--claims that the wakey-wakey dick-gobbling in which he engaged was "as between consenting adults." Stay tuned, kids; by weekend's end, this shitbag sex-offender should be claiming he was practically raped, RAPED!, by his soi-disant "victim".

Shuffle Off to Buffalo, Dept.

Last night, your sobsister played Imelda, a delightful game suitable for all ages wherein one plays track 1 of a CD then track 1 of a second, then track 2 of the first, track 2 of the second, and so on until one gets bored or until it's so fucking hot in the dining room that one passes out spittily burbling incoherencies.

So, last night's game had two parts.

First I melded the Original Cast Recording of Spring Awakening with Brian Eno's Taking Tiger Mountain By Strategy, which worked quite nicely, I thought. The former much brighter sounding but otherwise somehow congruent in tone and even form.

Then I melded Disc 1 of Kruder & Dorfmeister's The K & D Sessions with Disc 1 of Ornette Coleman's Complete Science Fiction Sessions, which was more interesting in contrast than congruence, particularly given the astringency of the latter butting up against the narcotic roundness of the former.

If you don't have a side-by-side CD player, burn/download the tracks and arrange them into a playlist in iTunes or whatever you use. Feel free to omit the title track from Science Fiction if you're not a fan of full-out free jazz blowing wed to babies crying into microphones with a droning spoken-word overlay

Opening a Nice, Big Can of Shut-the-Fuck-Up for Our Congolese Guest, Dept.

Tintin book accused of colonial racism - Telegraph

A Congolese student, Mbutu Mondondo Bienvenu, has filed a complaint before Belgium's state prosecutor against the 1931 story, Tintin in the Congo, because the natives of that region are depicted in said comic book as somewhat less than fully civilized.

Mondondo Bienvenu is demanding the book be withdrawn from the shelves and, in the spirit of bullshit nuisance suits everywhere, is pressing for "symbolic damages" of one euro from Moulinsart, the Belgian company that holds the rights to the Tintin stories.

This copycat nitwit was likely unaware of this horrible, terrible comic book until hearing about the complaint filed by a shopper in London against the book when she discovered that--horrors!--it contained attitudes and images that jibed with the prevailing colonialist prejudices of the time.

Mondondo Bienvenu claims that the book should be banned as it "constitutes an insult for all the Congolese" and that "Belgian school children should not be exposed to this kind of racist commentary. It is propaganda for colonialism."

Now, some might argue that the absolute shit state of the Congo since independence might be the best propaganda of all for colonialism but, unfortunately, they are not perched behind Mr. Mondondo Bienvenu with an army sock full of manure.

They might also note that, of the one thousand problems currently besetting the Congo, its depiction in a seventy-six-year-old comic book might number one-thousand-and-first.

So, as the sun sets on Mbutu Mondondo Bienvenu, I quote Bernard Baruch or was it Baruch Spinoza? who said, build a bridge and get over it. Dickhead.

Oldest Companion, Meet Oldest Profession, Dept.

Company Sinks Teeth Into Dog Time Shares

SAN FRANCISCO (AP) - From the state that popularized purse puppies, drive-thru dog washes and gourmet dog food delivery comes the latest in canine convenience _ a company that contracts out dogs by the day to urbanites without the time or space to care for a pet full-time.

Marlena Cervantes, founder of FlexPetz, bristles when people refer to her five-month-old business as a rent-a-pet service. She prefers the term "shared pet ownership," explaining the concept is more akin to a vacation time share or a gym membership than a trip to the video store.

No.
This is not a crap idea at all.
Oh, wait, I forgot to mention...it's Backwards Tuesday here at chez sobsister! So, let me list the ways in which this whole concept does, in fact, suck the hairy donkey dick.

1) Dogs love stability and routine. They thrive on it. The opposite of stability and routine might involve being shunted from house to house, subject to the whims, caprices, and cruelties of renters...whoops!, "shareholders" who I'm sure are painstakingly cleared for temporary pet custody. Something like they might experience as...I don't know...a FlexPet?

2) Ms. Cervantes' bristling sensitivity to a characterization of her service as a "rent-a-pet" seems a mite disingenuous, given that she's piggybacking its name off the FlexCar automobile rental business. When one contracts for a micro-rental from FlexCar, one does not enter into a "shared car ownership". One rents a car for an hour or two. Her pathetic attempts to lend this repellent enterprise tone by kicking its nomenclature upscale are, mmmm, a bit transparent, shall we say?, and reek more than a little of the arriviste on both ends of the transaction.

3) One might say, "Well, it's cheaper than owning a dog full-time." One might say that. Until one sees that to enjoy the temporary company of a dog, one pays a hundred bucks a year, fifty bucks a month, and forty bucks a day. So, your annual nut, assuming you see a dog once a week, is $2,780 American. But, hey, you live in San Francisco, you're used to being fucked up the ass! By merchants, I mean.

So, I got to thinking about why this idea filled me with such unease and revulsion. And then it struck me. These dogs are not pets. They are not companion animals. They are not non-human dependents.
They are doggie whores.
They are doggie whores being pimped out by this Cervantes woman to people who don't seem to have any problem severing any normal, human desire for attachment to an animal, to people who just want one night's roll in the grass with a disoriented dog who'll pretend to love them, to people who are used to treating things, animals, children as accessories to wear to the park to attract other similarly-loveless individuals.

The service, its intellectual underpinnings, its clientele are all fa schifo to the extreme. But it all does serve a greater purpose: if, in the course of your date/mate-seeking travels, you should ever meet anyone who claims to be a "shareholder" in one of these canine brothels, drop your latte, do a one-eighty, and head for the hills.
Why?
Would you want to get close to someone who wears a T-shirt that says "I pay for feigned affection"?
Didn't think so.

Thank your sobsister later.

QED, Dept.

S.C. Teen Falls 6 Stories, Walks Away - washingtonpost.com

Yeah, so some 17-year-old kid, Matthew Savage, reaches for something off his terrace and plummets down six flights. He hits other balconies during his descent, bams onto a rooftop, then slides into bushes. Walks away. A couple of scrapes and bruises, that's it.

What I luv about this story is his sister's takeaway from the whole incident: "'This was a "God is real" event, his sister, Mandy Baker, said.'"

Oh my.

I shudder to think of what her conclusion would've been if li'l bro had gone ker-splat on the sidewalk.

But just to recap for first-time readers: if God saves your friend, lover, or family member from certain death, say, from inadvertent six-story plummet, He is sooo real. If He does not, then He is as bogus as those Kate Spade bags the Nigerians sell on Lower Broadway.

To think that so many philosophers and theologians have needlessly spent all that thoughtpower trying to arrive at a satisfactory proof of God's existence, when all they needed to do was take it to the for-real.

Silly rabbits.

Those Darn Christbots!, Dept.

Arkansas Couple Welcomes 17th Child

Yeah, so devout Xtians and rabbitoid breeders Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar added another hosanna-howling monkey to their menagerie this week when the broodmare squeezed out number seventeen.

Jim Bob--who clearly does not know when to holster his gun--noted that they "are just so grateful to God for another gift from him." Yea, verily, the Lord hath blessed Jim Bob with a bounty of shit-arsed followers.

Your sobsister has written on this matter before, so I won't delve too deeply into the grotesque psychodrama surrounding this fundie remake of Cheaper by the Dozen. Except to note that this new "gift" has been given a name that begins with a "J". That's seventeen kids, all of whose names begin with "J". Do you think it stands for "Jeeezus" or for "Jim Bob"? Yeah. Thought so. I'm sure "M"ichelle feels in no way isolated by this little maneuver.

So, let's see...

Michelle's now been preg for a total of eleven out of her forty years, with all the hormonal mindfucking that entails. And she's married to a megalomaniacal goober with delusions of patriarchal grandeur who's marginalized her using religion as both his carrot and his stick.

Hmmm...

Tell me: how long d'you figure before she starts keeping an ice pick by her side of the bed à la Catherine Tramell?

That Darn Ted!, Dept.

Feds Eye Money Used for Wildlife Center - washingtonpost.com:

"Feds Eye Money Used for Wildlife Center

Justice Department officials investigating Sen. Ted Stevens are examining whether federal funds he steered to an Alaska wildlife research center may have enriched a former aide, say officials familiar with the probe....The SeaLife Center probe is in addition to an investigation by federal grand juries here and in Alaska into Stevens' ties to an oil company executive convicted of bribing Alaska state legislators."

Oh, Ted. Poor Ted. Mama's Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feeling So Sed.

That the integrity, probity, and honesty of this most Eminent Republican are being questioned makes me to quiver avec l'indignité. That the man who made the inner workings of the Internet comprehensible to so many Senile-Americans should be forced to submit to such outrages as having to explain why the bills for the massive renovation and expansion of his Alaska home went first to an oil industry contractor...why, my blood fairly boils!

But justice will out, of that I have no doubt. And soon enough, the addled and sclerotic Mr. Wilson of the Senate will be back shaking his fist angrily at the pesky Dennises of that chamber.

'Cause one generally doesn't leave the Senate unless flat and feet-first. They are as gods, these men, and not subject to the trifling moralities of the lesser sorts.

Capeesh? Good. Now, go get Senator Stevens another crude oil Cosmo, extra money,.