Washington Post Nonsense
You know, I get a real chuckle when the fucktards at the Washington Post write editorials like Top Secret Torture, or Dick Cohen’s The Lingo of Viet Nam, both of which decry the conduct of George Bush’s War on Everyone.
It is as if Fred Hiatt, Len Downie, Donald Graham, Roichard Cohen, and the rest have all forgotten their role in this debacle. That role was “cheerleader.” Cohen was especially execrable in his fawning support for the war, which bordered on fellatio. Hiatt and Downie’s unsigned editorials have on more than one occasion flatly contradicted the news on page one, presumably because they hoped that wishes would turn into ponies. They are feckless, shallow people who believe in nothing.
So Fred, stick your mewling as far up your fat ass as you can possibly shove it. Until you write a signed retraction of your support for Bush’s folly, I really don’t give a tinker’s damn whether you think that torture is bad, and that stifling the tortured is worse: you helped bring us here. Cohen, fuck you AND fuck your Viet Nam analogies. To adopt a particularly nasty turn of phrase from Michael Richards, you should be hanged “upside down with a fucking fork up your ass” for your role in selling this war.
I never thought I would ever say this, but fucking Andrew Sullivan has more credibility than the clownshow at the Washington Post. At least Sullivan actually admitted he was wrong about the war before he began lobbing shots at the Bush Admisnitration. You cowardly fools don’t even have the balls to do that, because it’d probably take you off the cocktail weenie circuit.
Fuck you Hiatt, fuck you Downie, and fuck you too, Richard Cohen: I hope that when you die, you spend eternity in hell swimming in a sea of soldiers’ blood, the soldiers you helped send to die. I hope Tammy Duckworth bludgeons you with her missing legs forever. I hope you wake up screaming, shrieking every night as the ghosts of dead Iraqi children, maimed infants, and raped teenagers with drillholes in their heads torment you until you go insane, reduced to catatonic, drooling vegetables with eyes as empty as a dead cat’s.
Or are you already there?
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