Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Google Bomb the Elections!

--AZ-Sen: Jon Kyl

--AZ-01: Rick Renzi

--AZ-05: J.D. Hayworth

--CA-04: John Doolittle

--CA-11: Richard Pombo

--CA-50: Brian Bilbray

--CO-04: Marilyn Musgrave

--CO-05: Doug Lamborn

--CO-07: Rick O'Donnell

--CT-04: Christopher Shays

--FL-13: Vernon Buchanan

--FL-16: Joe Negron

--FL-22: Clay Shaw

--ID-01: Bill Sali

--IL-06: Peter Roskam

--IL-10: Mark Kirk

--IL-14: Dennis Hastert

--IN-02: Chris Chocola

--IN-08: John Hostettler

--IA-01: Mike Whalen

--KS-02: Jim Ryun

--KY-03: Anne Northup

--KY-04: Geoff Davis

--MD-Sen: Michael Steele

--MN-01: Gil Gutknecht

--MN-06: Michele Bachmann

--MO-Sen: Jim Talent

--MT-Sen: Conrad Burns

--NV-03: Jon Porter

--NH-02: Charlie Bass

--NJ-07: Mike Ferguson

--NM-01: Heather Wilson

--NY-03: Peter King

--NY-20: John Sweeney

--NY-26: Tom Reynolds

--NY-29: Randy Kuhl

--NC-08: Robin Hayes

--NC-11: Charles Taylor

--OH-01: Steve Chabot

--OH-02: Jean Schmidt

--OH-15: Deborah Pryce

--OH-18: Joy Padgett

--PA-04: Melissa Hart

--PA-07: Curt Weldon

--PA-08: Mike Fitzpatrick

--PA-10: Don Sherwood

--RI-Sen: Lincoln Chafee

--TN-Sen: Bob Corker

--VA-Sen: George Allen

--VA-10: Frank Wolf

--WA-Sen: Mike McGavick

--WA-08: Dave Reichert

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Jesus quits Jews, Signs with Romans -- Christmas Cancelled

Jerusalem (AP) - The itinerant preacher called Jesus, famed for turning water into wine and raising the dead these past three years, has quit the Jewish faith and signed with the Romans for 52 million pieces of silver. The move shocked both his Jewish followers and his Roman opponents.

J. Christ

Jesus's agent, Scott Judas, crowed about his victory over the Jews. "They weren't willing to pay my client what he was worth, but this new contract with the Romans will leave him a very wealthy man." Judas dismissed talk of Jesus's new position diminishing his star power. "Look, with the Romans he's part of a team; sure, the Jews worshipped Jesus, but you know they'd turn on him in a heartbeat if he failed to perform. Jerusalem is a tough town; the press crucifies anybody who doesn't measure up to their standards. John the Baptist couldn't wait to get out of here."

Agent Scott Judas

"It's a little hard to believe, but I'd rather have him on our side than against us," said Saul of Tarsus, a Jew who is a Roman citizen. "The last time he was in town he swept the moneylenders out of the temple," he added, "and boy, did that make my job tougher -- I'm a tax collector, you see."

As per the requirements of his new boss, Pontius Pilate, Jesus has cut his hair and shaved off his beard. A Jewish citizen, a Miss Mary Magdelene has seen the new-look Jesus and has described him as "cuter than I realized."

New Look

A reliable source in the Procurator's office who wished to remain anonymous stated that Pilate has big plans for his new employee. "I'v heard that Pilate wants to make him head of the Centurian Guard; that's a big responsibility, running the prisons, managing crucifixions. It's one big headache. He must have a lot of faith in him."


Jerusalem citizens were stunned. A tearful Simon Peter, a fisherman, said, "I just don't understand it; we would have worshipped him like a god, and now he abandons us. Was that a rooster that just crowed?"

Observers of the Israel/Rome rivalry forsee bad times ahead for the Jewish forces. "It's not good," remarked Peter of Gammons, of the Jerusalem Globe, "I forsee 86 years of plagues ahead of us."

Satan, reached at his undisclosed location, had no comment.


Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Press On

There’s a little church down the road from my house, and every year for the past several years, they’ve put on a production of “A Christmas Carol” for the holidays. They have a big sign put up about this time of year for tryouts, and I’ve always admired them for reaching out to the community in a non-sectarian way. I’ve never actually been to see it, but judging from the pictures on their web site, they do an admirable job. This morning I’m driving by on my way to work and I notice two things: 1) the sign has been taken down (I guess tryouts are over), and 2) the marquee sign they have, instead of your usual cutesy religious platitudes (you know what I’m talking about), has two words. Press On.

I thought about those words on my way to work, and how they could apply to so many things in our life, from personal relationships, to work, to financial security, to health. Really, it’s a simple observation – as human beings we have no choice but to Press On. Those poor people in New Orleans and Texas, the terrorized innocents in Africa, the families of the slaughtered and tortured dead in Iraq, the father- and motherless children of our sacrificed soldiers, the suppressed gay population in this country, the grown victims of pedophile priests and the young victims of fundamentalist sadists; all of them, all of us, have no choice but to Press On.

I get down sometimes about this fool of a president, and this fool of a nation that elected him. I can’t be happy about the little victories like Cindy Sheehan’s unmasking of Bush’s cowardice, or Tom Delay’s long-deserved indictment, because the country and the media is still controlled by a cabal of unfeeling monsters who would literally sacrifice your life and mine if it meant increasing their bottom line. Their philosophy at the root is based on greed and lies, and that root is deep and thick and will take all of our effort to dig it up and kill it. We have to keep fighting. We cannot let up, we cannot relax, we cannot take our eye off the goal. It’s not over; it might not be over in our lifetime. We cannot quit while there is work still to be done.

We have no choice. Press On.

Friday, September 30, 2005

Law & Order: G.O.P.
A Parody

A Teleplay in Four Acts
(With apologies to Dick Wolf)



Night. New York City. Two men walk down a darkened street, laughing and talking; a crowd of people stream out of a subway station.

Man 1: I so hate the Red Sox! We lost that game, they didn’t win it!

Man 2: I hear ya, man. What was Torre thinking? He should have left Tino in; he’s really hot right now!

Man 1: Steinbrenner’s head is gonna explode any day now . . .

We hear a loud “Pop”, followed by three more.

Man 2: What is that?

Man 1: Get down!

Both men crouch down behind a car as a figure runs out of the alley, across the street, and disappears into the departing game crowd. The men stand up and look at each other, then cautiously peer down the alley.

Man 2: Oh man! Call the cops!


A few hours later. The two men stand, leaning against a patrol car, its lights, as well as the lights of several others, flashing. They talk earnestly to a patrolman, who is scribbling into a notebook; he nods, then turns and walks over to a tall black man in a brown overcoat with a badge clipped to his lapel. He is Detective Ed Green.

Green: Let me guess, they didn’t see a thing.

Policeman: Naturally. It is pretty dark here, and the perp ran across the street and was into the crowd before they could eyeball him. He was wearing a Yankees jacket.

Green: Who isn’t, in this city?

Briscoe: Detective Lennie Briscoe strolls up. I don’t know – I’m a Mets fan myself.

Green looks at Briscoe, startled.

Green: Lennie! I thought you were dead!

Briscoe: Not on TNT pal, not on TNT! Did our Yankees fan leave anything with the body?

Policeman: If you mean was this a robbery, no. The victim still had his wallet.

Green: The man wants to be a detective! He could have been interrupted, you know.

Policeman: Hard to see how. You’d have to be crazy to go down a dead end alley like this at night. And there doesn’t look like there was much of a struggle. Looks to me like he went down there willingly.

Briscoe: Like he knew his killer. You might make Detective yet, Patrolman.

Green: Holding the wallet. Two drivers licenses. One’s for here, one’s for DC. Says his name was Scooter Libby. Sounds like a kid’s vegetable.

Briscoe: Looking at the body as it’s wheeled out on a stretcher. Well, he’s passed his expiration date. They watch as the body is put into an ambulance. The door is slammed. Fade.


Act I


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: 2315 Washington Street, Apt. 15

Green and Briscoe are searching a non-descript flat. A short, balding man stands at the door.

Landlord: He rents by the week I don’t see him much. He usually leaves his rent in the box.

Briscoe: Casually looking around. Did he have many visitors?

Landlord: Saw a woman, white, short, brown hair – she was here a lot. Oh yeah, then there was this crazy bald guy showed up once. A real loud-mouth.

Briscoe: Crazy how?

Landlord: Didn’t understand much of what he said. He only came once. I heard him yelling in the hall, something about his marine buddies. And something about connections.

Briscoe: Was he threatening?

Landlord: Not really. Sounded more like he was bragging.

Green: Lennie, look here; an address book.

Briscoe: I don’t suppose one of them is labeled “Bald-Headed Guy”?


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: NYC Medical Examiner’s Office

Green and Briscoe enter the morgue. Medical Examiner Elizabeth Rodgers is lifting a body on to an examining table with the help of an assistant. She sees the two and turns away from the body.

Rodgers: Looking at Briscoe. Didn’t I handle you a few months ago?

Briscoe: Must have been some other handsome corpse.

Rodgers: I guess you’re here about the Libby murder, then. She walks over to a body-storage cooler and pulls open the drawer. The body lies there, covered. She takes a folder hanging on the drawer. Died of a gunshot wound to the head, probably the second shot; the first struck the abdomen, putting him down, the second killed him, the other two were to make sure. Messy. He had eaten a brat and some peanuts, had a blood alcohol level of 2.03.

Green: So he probably was at the game.

Rodgers: I’d say so.

Briscoe: What kind of gun?

Rodgers: 9 millimeter. Judging from the slug I’d say it’s an M9 Beretta; standard issue military firearm. Not your usual weapon of choice for a street punk.

Green: This is looking less and less like a robbery.

Briscoe: Which makes it a bigger and bigger headache.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Precinct Office

Green is sitting at his desk. Briscoe is leaning over his shoulder, going over Libby’s address book. Lt. Anita Van Buren comes out of her office, looks surprised.

Van Buren: Lennie! I thought you were dead!

Briscoe: You must be thinking of Abe Vigoda. He gestures at the address book. All but two of the numbers in this book are DC numbers. The ones here in New York are a Matthew Cooper and a Judith Miller.

Van Buren: Well, check them out.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Apartment of Matthew Cooper

Cooper is sitting on the couch; the apartment is nicely decorated and well kept. A woman sits next to Cooper looking concerned; she holds a baby in her lap. A second child, about five, plays quietly in a corner. Cooper, a portly, balding man, looks scared.

Cooper: My God, my God. This is terrible. He was . . . I mean . . . do you know who did it?

Green: How do you know him?

Cooper: Instantly evasive. I . . . I didn’t know him all that well.

Briscoe: Your number was in his address book, Mr. Cooper. Why would he need the number to a reporter?

Cooper: I can’t say.

Green: Can’t or won’t? We can discuss this downtown, if you’d rather.

Mrs. Cooper: Matt, tell them!

Cooper: Looking at his wife. OK. He was my source.

Green: About what?

Cooper: Looking incredulous. Don’t you read the papers?

Green: Only the sports.

Briscoe: I’ve been out of commission for a while myself. Why don’t you tell us?

Cooper: Sighs. I was working on a story about the WMD’s in Iraq. The President said in his State of the Union message that the country of Niger had sold uranium yellowcake to Iraq so that they could make nuclear weapons. Well, Dick Cheney’s office sent this diplomat to Niger to check out the claims – he’d had experience in both Africa and Iraq – and he came back saying that the information was bogus.

Green: I thought you said the President said it was true.

Cooper: I did. So Wilson – that was the diplomat – says, wait, I told you it was false, and he gets the runaround from the White House, so he gets a big op-ed piece printed in my paper saying the President’s a liar.

Briscoe: I think I remember that.

Cooper: Then you’re one of the few that do; most media just buried the story. Anyway, when Wilson does this, all hell breaks loose in the White House, and I get a call from Libby telling me that Wilson’s wife is a CIA agent, and that she was “fair game”, politically speaking. He said that his bosses wanted me to expose her.

Green: Did you?

Cooper: No! It’s a felony to “out” an undercover CIA agent. That would put her life in danger, not to mention all of her contacts. I told him I wouldn’t do it. Turns out he was shopping the information around to reporters, both here and in DC.

Briscoe: Did anybody buy it?

Cooper: Yeah. Guy named Novak in DC printed it.

Green: So he’s in jail, right?

Cooper: That’s not the way it works. It’s not illegal to print it. It is illegal to tell a reporter about it. There’s a special prosecutor after me to tell who my source is.

Briscoe: If that’s the case, it gives you a reason to want Libby dead, Mr. Cooper. Where were you last night, about 11:00 pm?

Cooper: Working. The newsroom of Time. You can ask anybody. I was there til after 2:00 am.

Green: Don’t worry, we will. How about Judith Miller? Do you know her?

Cooper: Looking worried. Yes. Yes I do. She’s a writer for the New York Times. The Special Prosecutor is after her as well; Libby told her, too.

Act II


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Apartment of Judith Miller

Green & Briscoe stand at an unremarkable apartment door; music can be heard coming from the apartment. They glance at each other and Briscoe knocks loudly on the door. Ms. Miller! Police! We hear the music drop in volume and the door opens. A short woman with mousy brown hair peers around the door; her clothes are wrinkled and her hair is a mess. She is obviously drunk.

Miller: I’m sorry officers, I’ll turn it down.

Briscoe: Well we need to see you turn it down, isn’t that right Ed?

Green: Nodding. Yeah, we need to make sure you really do it.

Miller: Slurring her words. A’right. Right this, way gentlemen. Looking at Green. Say, you’re cute!

Briscoe: That’s what I always tell him. He nods at the coffee table. A pistol lays there in plain view. Ed.

Green whips out a handkerchief and picks up the gun, sniffs it.

Green: It’s a Beretta – and it’s been fired recently.

Briscoe: Grabbing her arm. Ms. Miller, you’ll need to come with us.

Miller: Aw come on! The music isn’t that bad!

Briscoe: Escorting her out the door. Yeah, it’s killer.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: NYC Precinct Interrogation Room

Judith Miller sits at a table, one hand on her head, the other grasping a cup of coffee. Briscoe sits opposite her, Green leans against the wall.

Briscoe: Looking annoyed. Ms. Miller, it was in your house. Guns don’t just grow legs and walk around.

Miller: I’m telling you, it’s not my gun!

Briscoe: Now Ms. Miller, you’re a reporter, put yourself in our position; we come to your door, we see the gun, what are we supposed to think?

Miller: Slowly. It’s . . . it belongs to a source. I can’t tell you.

Briscoe: You can’t tell us? Are you kidding?

Green: Look Ms. Miller, I’ll make it simple for you. We’re running ballistic tests right now. This is your chance to come clean – if it was a lover’s quarrel, if it was self-defense, whatever, it’ll go easier on you if you tell us before we arrest you.

The door bursts open. A stocky, shaggy-haired man with a bushy mustache in a cheap suit barges into the room, followed closely by an angry uniformed officer.

Man: Loudly. Detectives, I’m John Bolton and I’m here to stop the investigation!

Green: Grabbing his arm and slamming him against the wall. The hell you are!

Van Buren rushes in, some papers in hand; she looks angry too.

Van Buren: Take this idiot and put him in a holding cell.

Bolton: You can’t do that! I’m her attorney!

Van Buren: Heatedly. You may be her attorney, but you can’t come into an interrogation room unescorted. To the officer. Charge him with trespassing. She looks at Miller. Ms. Miller, I would advise you to get a competent attorney. The ballistic tests came back; the gun from your apartment is the gun used kill Scooter Libby. Arrest her.

Dramatic music fading up.

Briscoe: Takes out handcuffs and pull’s Millers arms behind her. Judith Miller, you’re under arrest for the murder of Scooter Libby, you have the right to remain silent . . .

And out.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: NYC Criminal Court, District 3

A crowded courtroom, lawyers, civilians, officers and prisoners bustle around. Asst DA Serena Southerlyn stands at a table on one side, Judith Miller and John Bolton stand at the other side. A bailiff walks up to the judge, hands him some papers.

Judge: What’ve we got, Tony?

Bailiff: Docket Number 435013; People versus Judith Miller; Murder in the Second Degree.

Judge: Ok. How do you plead?

Bolton: Your honor, this is a travesty of justice! Ms. Miller is a journalist, and I am a highly regarded friend of the President of the United States! You must release this woman at once!

Judge: Dryly. Really? I tell you what Mr. – what is your name, sir?

Bolton: John Bolton. He unconsciously strokes his mustache. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.

Judge: I tell you what, Mr. Bolton, before I release her, why don’t you enter a plea?

Bolton: Blinks rapidly. Why . . . Not Guilty, of course!

Judge: Of course. Miss Southerlyn?

Southerlyn: Ms. Miller is currently under investigation by a special prosecutor in Washington. The victim is somehow connected to the investigation. We contend that if Ms. Miller was willing to murder to stop that investigation, she’s a flight risk.

Bolton: Loudly. This is outrageous! Your honor, you must release Ms. Miller immediately! My friends at the White House . . .

Judge: Interrupting. . . are powerful Republicans, Mr. Bolton. I know. I, however, am a Democrat – not that there’s anything wrong with that. Bail is set at $1 million dollars, and the defendant must surrender her passport. Bangs gavel. Next case.

Miller: As the guards lead her away. Not again!


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Office of DA Arthur Branch

Exec. ADA Jack McCoy and ADA Serena Southerlyn stand facing DA Arthur Branch, who is sitting at his desk. He’s fingering a Cuban cigar, still in its plastic holder.

Branch: The president gave a box of these the last time I was in DC. I still haven’t found a reason to smoke one.

McCoy: Aren’t those illegal?

Branch: The administration is “interested” in this case, Jack.

McCoy: On whose side? Libby worked for Dick Cheney, didn’t he?

Branch: They say that they’re supporting the reporter’s right to confidential sources.

Southerlyn: They’re protecting themselves!

Branch: Looking annoyed. We don’t know what their motives are. But I do know that they’ve replaced that idiot Bolton with a big gun.

McCoy: Who?

Branch: They’ve asked James Baker to come in and lead the defense team.

McCoy: Shaking his head. So are you asking me to make a deal?

Branch: Jack, the Republican Party gave me a lot of money the last election, but my next one is four years away. Make a deal? Hell, no! I can’t stand it when a fed throws his weight around my turf. I may be a Republican, but let’s face it – the guy at the top is an idiot, and if you ever repeat that you’ll be looking for another job. He hired an actor to walk his Supreme Court nominee through Congress, and the only reason that worked out was because the guy was a blank slate. Just be sure of one thing, Jack.

McCoy: What’s that?

Branch: Make sure that you win.



Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Office of Exec. ADA Jack McCoy

Jack McCoy and Serena Southerlyn are eating Chinese food while going over documents. An open legal box sits on one side of McCoy’s desk; two others are visible on the floor.

McCoy: According to these phone records, Libby’s called Miller at least once a week for the last four years; the first call came September 12, 2001.

Southerlyn: The day after? She looks puzzled.

McCoy: Yeah. And three quarters of the calls came from his house in Virginia. Very few from that apartment. There’s also a lot of calls from a Johnny Gosch over the past six months.

Southerlyn: Looking at a stack of papers of her own. Miller’s bank records show a $5,000 dollar payment from a “Bedrock Corporation” in Wilmington, Delaware. She reaches into another box, takes out stack of papers and pages through it. They’re signed by someone named Johnny Gosch.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Office of Bedrock Corporation, Wilmington Delaware

Serena Southerlyn is interviewing a baldheaded man, Johnny Gosch, sitting behind a desk. The office is seedy, with random stacks of papers, military and skin magazines, fast food sacks and trash lying about.

Gosch: Please sit down Miss Southerlyn. May I get you something?

Southerlyn: Looking around dubiously at the office. No, thank you. I’m here to ask you about the all the checks you’ve been sending to Judith Miller.

Gosch: Who’s Judith Miller?

Southerlyn: Mr. Gosch, we’ve got your bank records. You’ve also called Judith Miller twice a day for the past six months. Why is that?

Gosch: I don’t know what you’re talking about. I do some web consulting, and also some reporting. Any records you may have, you can’t use, because of reporter’s privilege.

Southerlyn: Trying not to laugh. Reporter’s privilege? Mr. Gosch, the next time I come back, I’ll have a subpoena. She stands and Gosch sticks out his hand. She looks at it like it’s a snake, turns and leaves Gosch with a stupid look on his face.

CUT TO: Serena is standing on a street corner, hailing a cab and talking into a cell phone.

Southerlyn: Jack, this guy has got to be the stupidest suspect I’ve ever questioned. Did you know he’s a male escort? And I’m going to need a subpoena.

CUT TO: Jack McCoy standing in his office, on the phone.

McCoy: That may have to wait. Baker’s office has filed a motion to suppress the gun.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Judge Weintraub’s Chambers, Supreme Court

A book-lined office. Judge David Weintraub, a distinguished, gray-haired man, is sitting at his desk. McCoy and Southerlyn sit on one side of the desk; Baker on the other.

Weintraub: So you’re saying that because Ms. Miller was intoxicated, that the search is unconstitutional?

Baker: Precisely. She wouldn’t have let the officers in if she hadn’t been impaired.

McCoy: Your honor, the police have a certain amount of leeway in using subterfuge to obtain evidence. They do it all the time. The fact that Ms. Miller had been drinking has no bearing; if the officers had made her drink, that would be another matter. Ms. Miller did this to herself.

Southerlyn: Your honor, I’ve taken the liberty of asking the arresting officer to be here for you to question. Briscoe enters.

McCoy & Weintraub: At the same time. Lennie! I thought you were dead!

Briscoe: Just don’t tell my ex.

Weintraub: Detective Briscoe, tell me: Just how drunk was she?

Briscoe: Judge, I’ve seen people a lot drunker. Hell, I’ve been a lot drunker than that. She was happy, but she knew what she was doing. I think she just forgot the gun was there.

Baker: Judge Weintraub, this is outrageous! In Washington . . .

Weintraub: Cutting him off. You’re not in Washington, Mr. Baker. I’ve known Detective Briscoe for over thirty years. His word is good enough for me. The gun is in.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Office of Exec. ADA Jack McCoy, Conference Room

Jack McCoy sits at one end of a long table; Serena Southerlyn stands slightly to one side. James Baker and Judith Miller sit at the other end. Baker looks grim, and Miller looks scared.

McCoy: We have the gun with Ms. Miller’s fingerprints on it. We have a motive; Ms. Miller was facing jail time for outing a CIA agent, and if Mr. Libby was her source, then by silencing him she would be free of those charges.

Baker: But you don’t know if he was the source.

Southerlyn: We don’t have to. We’ve got enough circumstantial evidence for at least Murder Two.

Miller: But I’m innocent!

Baker: Shut up, Ms. Miller. How about Man One?

Miller: Shut up? We’re talking about my life here! To McCoy: I can give you the killer.

Baker: Ms. Miller!

McCoy: Who, Ms. Miller? If not you, who? And why should I believe you?

Miller: It was Jeff. Jeff Guckert. He killed Scooter. I’ve got it all on tape – I used to be a good reporter, you know.

Southerlyn: Who?

Miller: You know him as Johnny Gosch.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: 235A Magnolia Court, Washington DC

Green and Briscoe stand outside the door of a nondescript apartment, guns drawn. Two uniformed officers are behind them. They kick the door open. We hear moaning sounds from the next room. Briscoe and Green look at each other, then rush the room. Jeff Guckert and Karl Rove are naked together in bed.

Dramatic music up.

Rove: What, what?

Guckert: What the hell?

Green: Handcuffing Guckert. Jeff Guckert, you’re under arrest for the murder of Scooter Libby. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say . . .

Guckert: He ordered me to do it! Pointing at Rove. It was all his idea!

Rove: Clumsily lunging at Guckert. You bastard!

Briscoe: You girls can work it out in New York. He handcuffs Rove. You both have the right to remain silent . . .

And out

Act IV


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Supreme Court, Part 8

A large, ornate courtroom. Judge David Weintraub is presiding. James Baker, Karl Rove, Jeff Guckert and his lawyer are seated at one table. Jack McCoy and Serena Southerlyn are seated at the other. The courtroom is packed with reporters. Judith Miller is on the witness stand.

McCoy: Tell us how you came to have the gun, Ms. Miller.

Miller: The gun belonged to Jim. We met about six months ago. Scooter had been pressing me – threatening me really, not to tell who my source was.

McCoy: Who was your source?

Miller turns in her chair and points to Rove.

Miller: He was. That fat bastard.

McCoy: Let the record state that the witness is pointing to Mr. Rove.

Weintraub: So ordered.

McCoy: So Scooter Libby was working for Mr. Rove?

Miller: He worked for Dick Cheney, but he was Karl’s bag man. He paid me to keep quiet about the CIA outing.

McCoy: You knew this was illegal.

Miller: Yes. I wanted to help the White House. I’ve been doing it for years.

McCoy: But you wanted more?

Miller: Yes! I’ve trashed my journalistic reputation because of these creeps! I wanted something for it!

McCoy: Tell us what happened the night of the murder.

Miller: Libby called me, told me he wanted to meet me at the game, so I went.

McCoy: And did you tell Mr. Guckert?

Miller: I called Jeff, and he told me that we would take care of the problem once and for all. I figured he would scare Libby and he’d leave me alone.

McCoy: But that’s not what happened, is it?

Miller: When the game was over, Libby and I were walking down the street with the crowd, and suddenly he pulled me into an alley. I was about to scream when Jeff showed up. He must have been following us. Libby and I were struggling, and Jeff shot Libby. He must have panicked, because he dropped the gun and ran.

McCoy: What did you do then?

Miller: I picked up the gun; I don’t know what I was thinking. I hid behind the dumpster and when everyone rushed in, I just blended in with the crowd. Then I went home.

McCoy: Did Mr. Guckert call you after that?

Miller: Never. She looks bitter. I haven’t seen him until today. Now I know he was working for Mr. Rove as well.

McCoy: Did you know that Guckert is not his real name?

Miller: Looking bitter. I just found out this morning. His name is James Gannon. He’s a male prostitute. I thought he loved me.

McCoy: And did you also know that he and Mr. Libby were working together?

Miller: Not until today. I thought he was a White House reporter.

McCoy: Oh, he was. Turning away, then turning back. Ms. Miller, has it occurred to you that Mr. Gannon might have been aiming at you?

Baker: Objection!

Weintraub: Sustained.

McCoy: No more questions.

Weintraub: Mr. Baker, due to the lateness of the hour, we’ll recess until 9:00 am tomorrow. Bangs gavel.

Baker looking frustrated walks over to McCoy.

Baker: We need to talk.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Office of Exec. ADA Jack McCoy, Conference Room

McCoy and Southerlyn sit at one end of the table. Baker and Rove sit at the other.

Baker: What can you offer us McCoy?

McCoy: Why should I offer you anything?

Baker: Gannon is getting ready to offer a plea. I want to beat him.

McCoy: Gannon pulled the trigger, but your client ordered the hit. I can get him for Murder Two easy. I’ll ask again, why should I?

Baker: We can give you the people who ordered my client.

McCoy & Southerlyn look stunned. They turn and look at each other, then look back at Baker.

McCoy: Hesitantly. If . . . if this means what I think it means (he looks at Rove) then Man 1, 5 to 10 with a recommendation.

Baker huddles with Rove for a second.

Baker: Deal.

McCoy: Talk to us Mr. Rove.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: The Oval Office, Washington DC

Dramatic music, up strongly. We follow the camera through the halls of the White House, incredulous staff members watching. The camera rotates around to reveal Ed Green and Lennie Briscoe, followed by hardened men who are obviously Secret Service, and behind them some very troubled men, a judge in robes, and some politicians. The camera swings around again and we are in the Oval Office. Dick Cheney is on the phone and George W. Bush sits behind his desk, feet propped up, arms behind his head.

Cheney: What the hell is this?

The men crowd into the room; the Secret Service fan out to either side of the President and Vice-President.

Green: Richard Cheney, George W. Bush, you’re both under arrest for the murder of Scooter Libby.

Bush: Hunh? Somebody killed a motor scooter?

Cheney throws down his phone, lunges at the nearest Secret Service man. He rips the gun from the startled agent’s holster.

Cheney: Brandishing the gun wildly. No copper’s gonna take The Big Dick! He points the gun at Bush. Come here you little twerp!

Shots ring out from several directions. Cheney is slammed against the wall by the force of the bullets, he slides brokenly to the floor, dead. Green, Briscoe, and the Secret Service men all holster their weapons. Everyone looks stunned. We hear the sound of something dribbling. Cut to George W. Bush: a stain is spreading from his crotch, dribbling on the floor.

Bush: Giggling uncontrollably. I made a wee-wee!

Briscoe: Gains his senses first and handcuffs Bush. Well, that’s all right Mr. President, we’ll get you some new clothes right away. They’re a nice shade of orange.

Bush: I like orange.

And out.


Sound Effect: Ding-DING!
Caption: Office of DA Arthur Branch

Exec. ADA Jack McCoy and ADA Serena Southerlyn sit facing DA Arthur Branch, who is sitting at his desk. All three are smoking Cuban cigars.

Branch: Well, I never thought I’d be smoking one of these, but it just goes to show that you never know what life will bring.

McCoy: It’s especially ironic when you consider where these came from. I still don’t understand why Baker cut a deal for Rove. He must have known where it would lead; he is the Bush consigliere, after all.

Branch: That’s right – he is. You obviously don’t remember The Godfather.

McCoy: Looking thoughtful, then a startled look comes over his face. You mean his father . . .?

Southerlyn: Fredo!

Brandt: For the good of the family. And the country, too.

Southerlyn: There’s just one thing I don’t understand. If Gannon was after Miller, why did he murder Libby? If he shot the wrong person, why did he finish him off?

McCoy: He didn’t. He shot once, hit the wrong person, then dropped the gun.

Southerlyn: Looking astonished. But that means Miller . . .

McCoy: Finished him off. Remember, she was the one with the motive. Don’t worry, she’ll be doing the max for Man 1. I’ve heard from Jimmy/Jeff’s lawyer; he’ll testify against her. Rove will be doing hard time, though; no country club for him.

Southerlyn: Shaking her head. I understand they’ve committed Bush. He’ll be neighbors with John Hinckley. She looks at Branch. Aren’t you concerned about what your party will do to you?

Branch: You aren’t going to believe this, but the Party Chairman called me this morning and asked me if I’d consider running for governor! I’m some kind of hero, apparently. Have you ever considered running for DA, Jack?

McCoy: No thanks Arthur. I hate politics.

Branch: Chuckling. You might think about it Jack; if Dennis Hastert could become president, then there might be a future for you!

Fade to black -- End Credits & Music

Friday, September 02, 2005

John Aravosis Nails It

Two things have become clear.

1. Fire FEMA Director Michael Brown.
FEMA director Michael Brown is either incompetent or a liar, and his only job seems to be giving non-stop interviews on TV when he should be coordinating hurricane relief. It's time for President Bush to appoint someone else who can handle the job, and give the guy $60,000 bucks to hire a spokesman.

2. President Bush needs to step aside.
It's time we talked about the elephant in the room. Bush isn't presidential, he never was, and we all knew it. He won reelection because John Kerry sucked, not because the majority wanted him in office. As a caretaker president, he might be fine, but when disaster hits we need a real leader, not some guy who simply isn't smart enough, and doesn't have the backbone or instinct to lead. We are witnessing first-hand what happens when a weak leader responds to a crisis. The crisis worsens, and people die.

Read the rest at AmericaBlog

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Welcome to the Third World

You and I, we’ve grown up watching the images on television – earthquakes in China, floods in India, recently the tsunami in Sri Lanka, the genocide in the Sudan. We watch, glazed, as smartly dressed beautiful people cheerily replay the footage, before they segue into the next Runaway Bride story. We congratulate ourselves that we’re not like Them. We sit there with the smug, self-satisfied knowledge that we’re better than Them.

Better than the Mexicans, whose elections are rigged, whose administration is so corrupt, whose standard of living is so low and people are so poor that they can’t keep their people in their own borders.

Better than the Africans, who superstitions keep them from combating AIDS, whose leaders live in wealth while their people slip further and further into poverty, whose children go hungry and die young.

Better than Europe, because we had to rescue them – twice – during world wars, whose people worship royalty, who gave birth to Nazism, who don’t know how to work.

Better than the Orient, a hotbed of communism and cheap goods

Better than the Russians, with their robber barons and fixed elections.

Better than the Muslims, with their society based on theocracy, suppression of women, and torture.


Except that these days, our elections are more rigged than Mexico’s, the corrupt don’t even bother to hide their corruption any more, the wealthy few get wealthier, and the middle class is shrinking while the poor get poorer still, while those few that can, contemplate immigrating to Canada or Australia or Europe.

Except that we now teach superstition in place of science, which has contributed to the Africans’ misery, the wealthy send their children to private schools for a real education, and the poverty rate and infant death rate climb.

Except that the Europeans have finally Gotten Over It, and have gone back to appreciating their own culture, whose royalty are mere figureheads unlike the American royalty of corporate plutocrats, have decent health care, and have enough sense to take time off – and leave the Nazism to this country.

Except that the Communists are wheeling and dealing in the world of big business with American industrialists all too willing to ignore slave labor in order for bigger profits, and the “cheap goods” have long since been better quality than this country can produce with our second rate educated work force.

Except that the Russians have learned all they need to know from the “Greed is Good” philosophy of the West, not to mention the chutzpa to dare point out our own suspect elections.

Except that our American mullahs are bringing about their version of Eden, where murder in the name of God is okay, where self-appointed religious leaders decide who lives and dies, and who finally, by God, will put women, jews, and atheists back in their place.

We have a government run by sociopaths and buffoons, with an unelected President who’s inept, corrupt, and with all the charisma and sleaze of a “manager” on a television wrestling show. Our once proud and independent media now aids and comforts the corruption, throwing away the respect and credibility it took decades to build. The spineless opposition – the side that we’re supposed to be on – lets this farce continue, either by their silence or their quisling acquisition to their corporate masters. We The People have no say in our government any longer – our deaths on the flooded streets of New Orleans, either by drowning, disease, or a Wal-Mart bullet – mean nothing, nothing to them.

Whether these are the first days of the twilight of the United States of America remains to be seen. It depends on how long the rest of the world will let us continue to make war on whomever we please. It depends on whether the worlds industries decide if they really need the money of American consumers to survive. It depends on whether we choose to drive our SUVs over our own survival. It depends on whether you and I will watch the news, roll over, and go back to sleep. It depends on if we will demand justice, finally.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Is there no depth to which the Bushies will sink? Of course not.

Bush brings in an Iraqi ringer (again)

They've accused her of lying. They say they know better than she what her dead son would say. They've publicized the unfortunate facts of her divorce. They've fired guns at her. They've threatened to run her over. They have run over the field of 1800 plus crosses set up at her protest site. Now, in yet another effort to Swift Boat Cindy Sheehan, they've sent in an "Iraqi Citizen" to discredit her. Read about her real connections. Welcome to Bush's Facist Amerika.