There is sanctity

in a lover’s arms.


And our very democracy is founded on the proposition that there is space as sacred as any Eucharist in any cathedral

inside your very own body and very own mind.



And whatever consensual adults do in the privacy of their homes

is more deserving of the protections of inviolable temple rites than any sack-the- planet-and-burn-the-rubble treachery cooked up by “Traitor Dick” Cheney and his coterie of energy industry Vandals behind closed doors.

I mention these obvious facts because a woman named Wendy Vitter came out a few days ago to stand by her man, “Diaper Dave” Vitter.

Sorry, that’s Conservative Republican Senator from Louisiana “Diaper Dave” Vitter.

You all know the story.

Here is a little bit of what Wendy Vitter said:

…
On Monday, the senator denied ties to the New Orleans brothel. His wife then stepped to the podium and asked the media to leave her family alone.

"You know, in almost any other marriage, this would have been a private issue between a husband and a wife — very private. Obviously, it is not here," she said. "And now I'm going to speak to you as a mother and I hope you will understand. It's been terribly hard to have the media parked on our front lawn and following us every day."

"And yesterday, the media was camped at our church — at our home, and at our church every day. As David returns to work in Washington, we're going to return to our life here. I would ask you very respectfully to let us continue our summer and our lives as we had planned."
…

I feel sorry for Wendy Vitter: Don't know a thing about her, but really, how many times have we been witness to a wife having to stand in the shredding spotlight to save her husband’s public career from his private appetites?

She reminds me just a little of one Arianna Huffington, circa 1997: a woman who came into this world as “Arianna Stassinopoulos” and remained thus until she met and married wingnut millionaire, bisexual and utterly empty-suit, Michael Huffington.

Arianna Huffington, who now describes herself as a "former right-winger who has evolved into a compassionate and progressive populist".

Because in the life of every interesting person, there is an arc.

But that is all a matter for future.

Difficult to see. Always in motion is the future.

Back in the here-and-now, this is not about your pervy man and his triflin’ ways, Wendy.

This is about the company he keeps.

The political company he keeps.

The intolerant, braying, Holier-Than-Thou gang he runs with. Bleating Heart Conservatives who are always only too happy to save their beloved Jesusland from the sticky, smartass heathen by dropping the full weight of that shredding, million-watt spotlight into the lives of anyone that doesn’t pass their litmus test of righteousness.

Who feel perfectly at home preemptively invading women’s bodies.

Who have no problem camping out on the doorsteps of family planning clinics and shrieking like howler monkeys as women try to exercise their right to see a physician.

Who applaud when pharmacists deny women access to medicine because Sweet Baby Jebus told ‘em it would make Him cry.

Who delight in following in the footsteps of Segregationists by explicitly telling two consenting, loving adults that they may not marry before the Law because their God sez so.

Who campaign, again and again and with a straight face, as the Party of Personal Responsibility.

Who march under the banner of the Party of God, making their political hay and decimating our precious Republic with their sick, medieval, theocratic idiocy.

Who cheered as they learned their President he had illegally spied on American citizens. Had made torture a matter of national policy. Had burned an active American spy for partisan gain. Had gutted the Department of Justice like a trout. Had run the Great Writ out of town on a rail.

Who spent eight years filled up the daily methadone feedbag of the MSM with every salacious detail – some factual; most just made up out of whole cloth – of Bill Clinton’s days on Earth, and now squeal like perforated swine as they prove, every single day -- by War and by Whore -- to be in a class of hypocrisy so far beyond anything else in the American politics as to be unmeasurable by conventional instruments.

And you get sore that the spotlight is now parked on your front lawn?

Following you every day?

Camped at your church?

At your home?

Kind of horrible being on the boomy end of the artillery people like your husband spend their political lives polishing, isn’t it?

Well welcome to Liberalville, Wendy, and to your brand new bungalow at the corner of Jerry Falwell Boulevard and Newt Gingrich Avenue (formerly the Joe McCarthy Thoroughfare.)

If you get lost, remember, it’s one mile past the Rush Limbaugh on-ramp.

Then over the O’Reilly bridge.

Then a quick right down Ann Coulter Way.