I’m serious: Richard Nixon seems downright honorable and decent by the standards being set by this administration. At least his pathetic “I am not a crook!” statement seemed to show an awareness, a sort of public acknowledgement, that this issue was actually on the minds of Americans and needed to be addressed, however unconvincingly. Nixon at least seemed human at the depth of his plight.
In contrast, the Bushies more resemble something like an infestation of termites or lice. You just know that no appeal to reason, decency or historical precedent could possibly get rid of them. No public spectacle of bumbling ineptitude or sweaty evasiveness can shame them. This is not mere corruption; it’s pestilence of the highest order.
These are alien creatures who resemble and act like human beings during the daytime. At night, they gather in humid, overheated chambers beneath the National Archives building—sort of like the egg chamber in Aliens—to sap the lifeblood of the Constitution with highly specialized sucking mouthparts. It's a terrible fear I have to find myself locked in the Smithsonian at night, with my handheld Alien detector going “beep, beep, beep” as Alberto Gonzales makes his way towards me through the ventilation duct.
It’s not the 1970s anymore, and now the senior editors of the Washington Post poo-pooh, make excuses for and otherwise quash the evidence of criminal wrongdoing that their still-diligent reporters work to uncover. And where is Bob Woodward this time around? There he is on TV, but something strange is happening. Oh my God—his head is splitting apart like an over-ripe pomegranite, to reveal a hideous, slimy insect head inside! Oh my God! He’s one of them! AAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHH! Help! Mr. Cox! . . . Mr. Rodino! . . . Mr. Ervin! Can’t someone please help!