You know who you are.
For weeks, you blustered and sneered about how embarassed the libruhls were gonna be just as soon as those warehouses stacked to the ceiling full of Evil Nasty were found. Thousands of litres of nerve gas, anthrax, toxins, the mega-magilla. Over and over, you gloated in advance about how you were going to rub our noses in it. Yessiree, Bob. Can’t wait to get in there, show you guys how full of shit you are.
Well, I think we all know what happened with that. Anybody who doesn’t know by now drools in thier oatmeal. And, of course, we stalwarts of Truth and Justice, offered invitations to explain this rather embarassing development. Admittedly, it was a bit like serving up a turd sundae and handing you a spoon. But that’s only fair, isn’t it? After all, you were sneering in advance, so certain you were that Fearless Misleader, that collossus of geopolitik, was the font of all that is true and worthy, and we were but carping and hostile peaceniks.
Truth comes out, and you guys vanish. Nothing to say.
Weenies. Wimp ass weenies. Only Sam had the cojones to step up take his spoonful. A Canadian, fer Chrissake!
(In deference of which I hereby promise never to refer to him as Conan the Canadian ever again. Scouts honor. Honest Native American.)
Now, I didn’t expect a mass conversion from the Dark Side. You even had an excuse, you were lied to by experts, and dazed by a misplaced faith in a vapid little twit with delusions of competence. But do you step up and take your lumps like a…person? You do not. You slither back under the nearest rock and pretend it never happened.
If balls were LSD you wouldn’t have enough to blow your mind. Such as it were.
Weenies.