The Whites Of Our Eyes
Copyright © by Norman Ball, 11/16/12


  These crappy politicians insist everything must bow at the feet of their campaign schedules. Why? What larger issue could there possibly be than the preservation of power? As for the People's business, well, it sort of gets squeezed in from time to time. However we plebes must be patient because we’re in political season which as everyone knows has officially become all seasons.

  There are laws in place to protect against the politicization of sensitive FBI investigations. Alas circumspection is the enemy of the witch-hunt. All the opposition can think about is how delectably proximate this scandal was to a close national election and how it might have tipped victory in their direction. As for Benghazi, the inquiry will skirt over all that dreary security stuff before zeroing in on Obama's jugular.

  Thank God Rep. Eric Cantor got leaked to in October. (Note to naked ambition: Cantor is a hyper-ambitious Republican up-and-comer who can't be too distraught that 2016 favorite Petraeus--or as the royalists liked to think of him, Ike II--is now an official dead duck). But should a shirtless FBI agent be allowed to politicize a sensitive investigation by playing mole to an opposition Congressman? Hoover would have at least insisted he wear a pressed shirt over his unmentionables. You can say a lot about Hoover, but you never saw his girdle in public.

  My guess is Cantor sat back fully expecting this thing to explode pre-election so his fingerprints would not be on the outrage. Trouble is, Hurricane Sandy came along, took FBI Director Mueller’s eye off the political football and ruined everything. God damn those acts of God for their political imperviousness, playing it right down the middle, this time of Wall Street and Cape May. It pays to remember the FBI is a Mormon Mafia substation and wasn’t Romney the spit and image of Efrem Zimbalist Jr.? Politics, politics. It poisons all wells.

  Yes, Ms. Broadwell is attractive alright. But I’ve SEEN that crazed look in the eyes before in a couple of harrowing relationships. Behind every hyper-achieving valedictorian-cheerleader lurks an astronaut in diapers. The hyper-achievers (of both genders) tend to be massively insecure and simply have to have the Homecoming King/Queen slot so they can better display their sheath of scholarships from the lead convertible in the parade. As for their fellow graduating nonentities, the world is flashing a decidedly bifurcated employment picture: McDonald’s or Kabul.

  For all her demonstrable brilliance (okay, her first book outing was penned about her married boyfriend and by a ghostwriter to boot, sheesh) there is a stunted 10th grade 'stay away from my boyfriend bitch' vibe. You can ensconce the cheerleader in West Point but you can never fully pry her from the backseat of the star quarterback's car. At least cuckolds everywhere learned a valuable espionage trick from General Spook: if you share a common email address with your mistress and leave messages for one another in the Draft folder, cyberspace remains none the wiser—unless of course your mistress is a raving lunatic in which case all bets are off and who’s your Uncle Sam?

  Meanwhile the kids, sensing their four-star Lothario plays Patton only on TV while his waking hours are reserved mostly for match.com, are offing themselves in frightening numbers. With American guns trained increasingly inward, Afghan rebels play a waiting game. Why put your camel’s ass in the crosshairs when American bullets have crossed over to your side? Sadly America’s tendency is to start thinking way beyond the insertion point and only after some new backwater shithole has become pregnant with Yankee atrocity. The enemy is not 'over there'. Rather it is crouched and armed within the perimeters of the American psyche. When are we going to come home, take a good look in the mirror and open a whole new swathe of McDonald’s? Third-world women and children have earned a Coke, a smile and a fucking rest.


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