Read My Lips: Put Up, Don't Shut Up

I want Karl Rove to talk. Through my chakra, into my core, I honestly wish that he would open his fat face and spill the beans. And I can't believe it. The idea of him entertaining a thought disgusts me. And when he actually expresses those thoughts, I lose hair and faint. But as the investigation into the CIA leak at the White House heats up, that fucker had better get chatty. In an assist worthy of Magic Johnson, suddenly buttface Bush is all, “No comment.” Smooth pass, eh? Is that because speech writers haven't whipped up a clever sound bite or two? Or perhaps he's realized that he cannot speak extemporaneously without sounding like Kirk Douglas, post-stroke. But if it were Teddy Kennedy’s big red face saying, “No comment,” regarding a misstep taken by, let's say Al Gore or John Kerry, G.W. and Rove wouldn’t miss an opportunity to crap on their silent treatment. These guys are the hall monitors of the U.S. They're smarmy, obsequious, petty, insecure little pricks who'd tell on their own Mothers. "She drank. A lot." Like white on rice, like flies on shit, they’d mug it up for every news outlet until camera lenses melted and reporters bled from their fingers trying to capture their accusatory jargon. This is exactly the kind of hypocrisy practiced regularly by Bush and the boys. Hell count the girls in, too, because I'll say what everyone's thinking: Condi, you are a radioactive Uncle Tom.

Why do concepts like the TRUTH and rigorous HONESTY and HONOR and RESPONSIBILITY and ACCOUNTABILITY only matter to the President of the United States and his staff when they're pointing their collective fingers at everyone else? They point at whoever did this bad thing, and whoever says un-American 'stuff.' They also like to point at shit somebody didn't do, or something somebody might have done. Administration policy dictates that you get to point at 'em if you think they're thinking it. May I suggest aiming a good, solid forefinger toward the nearest mirror, West Wingers? I'll put it in terms the Prez can understand, "Gotcha!" "Tag, you're it!" It's about damn time, sirs, to live up to the principles you purport to embody, yet do not bother to practice.

So, start talkin’, homeboys. Open your flibity flabity jibber jabbers. How 'bout a little soft shoe while you sing like a birdie, cracka? If you ain’t hidin’ nuthin’ then why you ain’t sayin’ nuthin’? Damn, bitch! That’s the kind of guilty shit that gets a bitch fucked.