Am really quite enjoying Plamegate. Seriously, as evil as those guys in the White House are, they're pretty damn good at being evil, huh? I mean, really good. Like, in twenty years when they make a movie about this whole thing, it'll all seem downright Ocean's Eleven good. Fine job, boys. Good on ya, Karl. Chin up, Dick. You've made a ripe fine mess of things, muddied the waters until we couldn't see our toes in the brackish water of your lies and deceit, and by Jove that of course is just how you wanted it. There won't be any resignations, any convictions, or any fallout for the Republicans.
And people, you don't know how strongly I want all of that to be untrue. You really don't. But I calls em like I sees em, and the hapless and spineless Democrats (and spineless journalists) have once again fallen on the sword of their slack-jawed incredulity - "them there guys did whaaaaa....?" Always a step behind, ain't ya, boys?
I've had a sore throat now for five days. Strep throat. How do I know? Because I know my own body, fools, and it knows me. Now, here's what's interesting: if left untreated for more than a few days, strep throat can turn into rheumatic fever. Rheumatic fever! Oh, if only I were so lucky. Well, so far I don't think I've contracted that, as my joints aren't sore and irritated, I don't have a rash (besides the permanent one on my right thigh) and my heart valves aren't deteriorating (only my heartstrings and my heartstuffs - a consequence of long ago losing the capacity for love). Suffice it to say that I should probably go to a doctor and get some penicillin, if I knew what was good for me, which I clearly don't. Or is it that I do know what is good for me (namely, antibiotics) and just refuse to get treated? If the correct answer is the latter, then why, let us wonder, is that the case? Is it because I am lazy? Is it because I never listen to anyone about anything and just stubbornly and arrogantly assume that I can do things others can't? Is it because I'd rather wait it out until the glands on my neck swell to the size of veritable grapes, protruding like errant goiters and then writing about the aforementioned, gargantuan lymph nodes on my ever so unpopular blog in some sort of attempt to gain your pity, perhaps even your admiration as I struggle through the work day, painfully swallowing every thirty seconds, sipping a rancid cup of Theraflu?
Is it none of these things, my friends. It is simply that I wish to become incredibly ill at the hand of some odd and unrecognizalbe disease, and to then be treated by Princeton's most brilliant doctor, House.