You're a guy standing in a kitchen with a chick, and said chick hands you a jar of Ragu and asks you to open it for her. You nod confidently, and you grasp the jar lid in one hand and jar in the other, and you apply as much testosteronie to the lid as possible, but it does not come off. You twist and squrim until your hockey-dad vein pops out, until you are scared that if you try any harder, you'll make in your pants. You tap it on the counter, you run it under hot water, you speak to it tersely, but the thing is a modern day excalibur.
You hand it back to her saying it can't be done, and she twists that molhagger right off.
"Well," you say, trying to evoke Clint Eastwood, "I loosened it up for ya."
For the sake of political metaphor, you are Harriet Miers.
It would take month of water drip torture to convince me otherwise, and I do not think it is tin-foil-beanie thinking to believe it. I am certain that it was Miers' job to loosen the jar, and now the neocons are drenching you and me in scrumptuous, Planned Parenthood v. Casey-dissenting, to-the-right-of-Renquist-and-Pinochet, Sam Alito.
Eat up, Bush voters. Eat up, all ya'll. Soon, you'll need a permission slip to masturbate. Nice going!
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