This is all pleasantly vicious gossip from the last few days. If you're too fine for that sort of thing, skip this. We'll be back to being high-minded tomorrow. 

Judy Wudy Miller .. Chalabi's girlie girlie,

& Scooter's, & Lou's, &c

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I thought this last paragraph of the permission-to-talk-to-the-grand-jury letter to NYT's chief shrill shill for the Iraq war (she gulped down slitherer-in-chief Ahmed Chalabi's koolaid) Judy Miller in jail from vice president UnLiving Dead Chenoid's Chief of Staff Scooter Libby was an urban myth made up by some enterprising blogger, but no, he really wrote it to her. Very very odd.

“You went into jail in the summer. It is fall now. You will have stories to cover — Iraqi elections and suicide bombers, biological threats and the Iranian nuclear program. Out West, where you vacation, the aspens will already be turning. They turn in clusters, because their roots connect them. Come back to work — and life. Until then, you will remain in my thoughts and prayers — With admiration, Scooter Libby.”

All the bloggoagoggosphere is speculating that it's code for “if you don't stay connected (& on connected message), look out, cowgirl.” “Thoughts & prayers” — ???? Sounds a tad hazily gazing over a glass of champagne in low light to me. Not exactly a source to a journalist. Too many trysts under the scowling portrait of Uncle Dick in the outer office after hours? 

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It was EMBARRASSING to see Judy Wudy Miller on Lou Dobbs — she was being so girlie and flirty and submissive and sychophanty, I all but womitted. “Oh Lou,” bat eyelashes (I didn't know real people actually did batting eyelashes — I thought it was only Barbie in some pubescent guy's fevered imagination) bat eyelashes, “oh Lou-ie, your littly whittly calendar counting my days in jail gave me so muchie wuchie hope!!!” — bat eyelashes, sigh, sigh. One could all but see the hearts as 'i' dots. Groan — took woman-kind back at least 2 centuries. I wanted to say Get a Room.

It was ghastly.

IF Cheney were indicted, I would spontaneously bust into a bloody confetti of Compleat JOY

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Chancelucky wrote a very droll piece on his chancelucky blog about the NeoCon's Poets Society which you'll enjoy. To which I added the following Breaking News.

In the interests of Image Warming, ChanceLucky, I too have been hired by an increasingly, if I may say so, frayed Karlsie Rove. Karlsie and I had a little fling once upon a fairy-tale time, oh my, but we're all back on a pretty professional basis now that he took up with that <b>Scooter-leavings slattern Judy Miller</b>. I heart Karlsie, but he's trying to keep her from talking by doing her favors, nudge, wink.

I am negotiating for a new Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream to be called Karl Roves Band: NeoNutCons, 10% of the profits to go to the Scooter-Karlsie Defense Fund — ScoKaDefenFu. It will be a Noble Cause. This delicious vanilla ice cream will contain peanuts, walnuts, almonds, cashews, pistachios — the leitmotif of this wonderful new ice cream is NeoNutCons — Lots o' Nuts!

I am including an excerpt from the super double secret transcript I found on pogblog that gives further info on the Judy A. Miller complex of infatuations. I'm not trying to suggest that she slept her way to the top of the DC Mis-Info Chain — I'm stating it baldly — including my once-squeeze Baldy Karlsie, may he live an eternity of conscious torment!

I think Chalabi just unzipped & she went all girlie & believed him about the non-existent nukes. “Oh Ahmed, you are so strong. Please tell me more.” And kinda like Mata Chalabi, he plied her with fantastical tales.

Next day phone call to NYT, left on private phone message machine — “Miss Judy, I will not see you again and show you my Saddam-sized weapon of mass distruction if you do not print my stories on the front page of the New York Times. Why do you think a flighty birdbrain like you was ever planted on the NYT staff in the first-place? It's pay-up time. This is Ahmed. 555-555-3450.” [The zero where the 'six' should be is a code for 'no sex' according to my college prof talking about 'A Perfect Day for Banana Fish' & the 507 number on the hotel door. Who knew?]

Return call, on machine “Please no, please no, my Chalabi. I must see you so our aspen roots can intertwine. Please be mine. I cannot print your stories on the front page because they do fact checking! Of course, unless I slip some on the side to the fact-checker. Who is a burly brute. Please no, please no, my Chalabi.”
Well, the rest is, as they say they say, history.

There is a subsubsubunder-alles rumorrumorrumor surrumor that the Lurker In Your Dreams, Dr. Lurker could take an indictment in the neck. But I don't think even Fitzgerald The Noble would have the huevos to do that. He wouldn't live through the afternoon. Dr. Lurker would cue Armageddon for sure & go off to the underground Dr. Lurker Haven under that mountain in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Colorado. My fear is that he is already there with his pus-dripping finger poised over the Armageddon Button.

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