Who? Us?

Or, as Editorialists say, "Who? We?"

As the days pass and it becomes increasingly clear that Lewis Libby has had no justice but has been pilloried by "Just us," those Americans still possessed of a shred of apolitical decency might well ask, at the very least, for an accounting by those responsible.

Of course, all those who strutted and fretted out their seedy roles in this revolting saga will look up, like dogs caught rolling in garbage, and shrug a mighty, "Who? Us?"

Wilsons: "Who? Us? Don't you know that you can't insult media whores?"

The mighty couple of media whores, Wilson and his wife, are off to have many millions of dollars blown out of Hollywood's bung as some addled producers there bring out their "heroic tale" for the thousandth time and told according to the Wilson's well-rehearsed encyclopedia of lies -- exposed one by one in the course of the trial.

Novak: "Who? Me? Not my mess but it sure looks tasty still."

Robert Novak, a columnist composed solely of petrochemical byproducts, is already establishing his "It is not my fault" with his column today, "While my column on Wilson's mission triggered Libby's misery, I played but a minor role in his trial." Just a spear carrier that Novak. Just the messenger of the misery. "Who? Me?"

The (Who? Us?) Washington Post that pumped the sludge of the "scandal" for months slaps on its Editorial Mask and says, "The fall of this skilled and long-respected public servant is particularly sobering because it arose from a Washington scandal remarkable for its lack of substance."

Translation: Please do not recall the huge amount of effort and reporting and opining that we pumped into this "scandal remarkable for its lack of substance."

Froomkin: "There must be a tasty morsel in here somewhere."

Meanwhile, the odious Froomkin in today's Washington Post still has his commodious nostrils planted firmly in the cloud of his own effluence: "But with former vice presidential chief of staff Scooter Libby's conviction on charges of perjury and obstruction yesterday, the stench of corruption has taken formal residence at the White House."

It would seem that, although the Froomkin may well reside in or around Washington, he has not been following the Fitzgerald investigation that, starting out for a New World, ran aground in Foggy Bottom. One hopes that Froomkin inhabits an office at the Post with an industrial-strength exhaust fan in the walls so that his co-workers can come to their jobs without Haz-Mat suits.

New York Times: "Who? We? Our reporting and editorial methods are completely transparent."

And, of course, there is the "Who? Us?" of the Times. There is always that "Who? Us?" flavor to the Times. It never disappoints. It's own peculiar mask speaks to the need for yet more tainted meat it can stuff down its maw. But of course, it does so with only the highest motives: "What we still do not know is whether a government official used Ms. Wilson's name despite knowing that she worked undercover. That is a serious offense, which could have put her and all those who had worked with her in danger."

"What we still do not know...." Well, isn't that special? Seems they still couldn't stand to read their own reporting from the trial. Or the transcripts, or the testimony. But then again, if it is in the New York Times these days, fewer and fewer people can stand to read it. So why should the Times' editors be any different?

Indeed, the Times own "reporting" today on the probable aftermath of the trial features this masterful bit of understatement about their own reporter, Judith Miller, who spent a 85 days in jail in the course of the sordid spectacle: "She has since left The Times." The writer, Adam Liptak, either typed that out or it was inserted by a NYT macro on the way to the press. The departure of Miller from the Times was interesting, tortured, and labyrinthine. To say only "She has since left The Times." is to deflect the "Who? Us?" onto the "Yes. Her."

Bloggers: "Who? Us? Just keep those hot, moist pellets coming."

We won't even bother with the hosts of coprophagic bloggers who have been rooting about under the media table for scraps, and then turning them into highly compressed rabbit pellets for their own consumption. It's the prime source of fuel for these Everyready bunnies. They'll keep going and going as long as they can eat the pellets they emit. They'll pause only to pick their teeth and belch, "Who? Us?"

Meanwhile, up at the other end of the long line of those who've lynched Libby, lurks the dynamic duo of the administration, the infamous Bush-Cheney, eternal targets of the eternal Washington question, "What did they know and when did they know it?"

It's not surprising that the left and the media and everyone else in DC continues to fire their gobbets of spleen into the White House, pausing only to reload. What is surprising is that there is always so little fire returned. In this whole sorry tale we've seen, what? -- "Joe Wilson is a liar and his wife sent him on the junket because she was sick of having him moping about the house?"

It's true that, compared to the real power weilded by the White House, the power of the Post and the Times is, on any given day, composed of little tiny strings of fact, fantasy, fools' words and fables, but the Lilliputians can have their way with Gulliver if he lies prone for too long. And prone has far too long been the primary position of the White House.

Not an hour passed after the conviction of Lewis Libby before the dogs braying against a Presidential Pardon were howling. They warned against now and they warned against later. The smart money bet that, while going out the door of the Oval office for the last time, George would turn and say, "Oh, yeah, Scooter? Free and blameless. You need my autograph on that?"

All well and good until you reflect that that day is years away. In the meantime, Libby, the "Who? Us? fall guy, will slide ever deeper into personal and financial ruin.

Those who take pleasure in this are nothing more than political perverts, and watching their performance of ideological auto-fellatio is not a pretty sight. You wonder if anyone so bent can ever get unbent or if they are doomed to replicate Ouroboros for the rest of their lives. Seeing the pleasure they are currently getting, my money's on curved spines forever. I'm for an immediate pardon for Libby's sake, for the sake of simple justice -- not "Washington Justice -- and to see those spines curved back the other way until they fit nicely over the knee of History.

"Who? Me?"

Would it be too much to ask for a smidgen of testicular activity here? Just for once it would be nice to see the one man with real power in the matter to say, not "Who? Me?" but rather "He's free."

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Posted by Vanderleun at March 8, 2007 11:02 AM | TrackBack
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