Dick, what's wrong with Old Yeller?

This little bit of cake tucked far away from prying eyes made me want to go out, sling a case of beer over one shoulder, a libidinous liberal lass over the other and celebrate in a way that’d make God say, “Dude, close the blinds already. Jeez.”

As we fight, so should we always remember to raise a glass, a skirt and little hell when we score a victory. Good for morale.

Thanks to Atrios for pointing it out…

W backs way off on Soc Sec plan
Kenneth R. Bazinet

WASHINGTON - President Bush has all but conceded his plan for private accounts for Social Security is dead, admitting privatization won't save the federal retirement system.

"You can solve the solvency issue without personal accounts," Bush said in an interview with the Radio-Television News Directors Association.
…

Wow. I wonder who told him?

I’m betting Cheney.

I’m betting it went something like…

“Where’d Private Accounts go, Dick?”

“Well George, sometimes Evil Policy gets sick and then it has to go to a special place…”

“What’d you mean, Dick? What’d you mean ‘sick’?”

“Sometimes, George, all the smearing and the lying, the cooked-books and the paid-off whore journalists in the world can’t help.”

George’s lip trembles a little.

“Private Accounts were old, George. Old and tired.”

“But…but…”

“And when things get too old and too tired, sometimes that have to be, um, uh…”

“Private Accounts cain’t be dead, Dick! They cain’t be dead!?”

George begins to sniffle.

“Oh no, no. Don’t worry, little man. They’re not dead.”

“Not…dead?”

“No, not dead”

“Really, Dick? Really truly?”

“Really truly, George. Cross my heart.”

“Cross your heart, like ‘We’ll be greeted as liberators’-cross-your-heart, or really, really, really Cross your heart.”

“George, I swear by all that is Halliburton, that Private Accounts are just fine.”

“Oh thank God!”

George bursts into tears. He had been hold back, but now his relief overwhelms him. Such a brave ‘lil soldier.

“There, there, George. Of course they’re OK. They’re on a big farm out in Colorado where they can run and run, and play all day long in the warm sunshine with Iraqi mobile weapons labs and Niger uranium.”

“Thank you, Dick. Thank you…for being so strong. For taking care of these things.”

“Just doing my job, George. Cheer up. Everything’s great. Better than great! Come on, lets go find some of those anti-American tree-hugger laws and have ourselves a bonfire.”

“And after lunch, can we maybe dig up George Wallace and appoint his smelly corpse to the Supreme Court?”

“You bet we can, little man! I bet we can even make that funny Mr. Frist kiss it on the mouth.”

Laughing, they both exit, stage right; an empty suit and the poisonous gasbag that keeps it inflated.