Sunday, Zero-Minus-10
Dubya, I have a dream. A recurrent dream. No, a nightmare.
You and me are standing on the White House roof -- it's like it's got a widow's walk or something. We can see for miles. There's gazillions of security moms in rank upon rank all the way to the horizon, screaming like Beatles fans, doing the wave, clapping and yelling for you, the guy who kept them safe from terrorism for four years and will for four more.
Suddenly a 50-story Richard Clarke comes stomping down Pennsylvania Avenue, bellowing so loud you can hear him clear across a dozen states. “I apologize to the victims of September 11!” he thunders. “Your government failed you!”
And all those gazillions of security moms go real quiet.