What is there in this latest writing of Lithwick's that doesn't fit Jacob Weisberg at least as well as it fits Alberto Gonzales?

Every day, life for the Slate reader is that part of an IQ test which demands of the reader that he say in which direction a particular gear is moving (there are only two directions). Just as is true for him with the original of the test, the Slate reader doesn't get the test back, and so he is made to be the one person involved who can never know with any certainty what has become of him.