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David Broder, Pantysniffing Pervert


    You can’t see my hands! 

Look, This will be short and sweet.  I know Christy brought this up earlier, but I have a modest proposal for the community on this subject.  These DC media cocktail weenie people are morally bankrupt.  They need to be fired.  But in the meantime, they need a bit of their own medicine.

Here’s David Broder moaning at his keyboard (emphasis added):

The two sides of Hillary Rodham Clinton — the opposites that make her potential presidential candidacy such a gamble — came into sharp focus Tuesday morning at the National Press Club.

For the better part of an hour, the senator from New York held forth in a disquisition on energy policy that was as overwhelming in its detail as it was ambitious in its reach.

But the buzz in the room was not about her speech — or her striking appearance in a lemon-yellow pantsuit — but about the lengthy analysis of the state of her marriage to Bill Clinton that was on the front page of that morning’s New York Times.

Next up, Slate’s Jacob Weisberg uses the occasion of a Hillary speech to serve up this gem:

 A low moment in the annals of Clintonism occurred in 1994 at an MTV forum, when the then-president answered a question about whether he wore boxers or briefs. Less well-remembered is Bill Clinton’s actual answer. "Usually briefs," he responded, offering a glimpse of the carefully wrought shadings that came to define his political career. Tighty whiteys will play better with these kids and the NASCAR crowd, he might have been thinking. But I don’t want to alienate East Coast preppies … Of course, Clinton missed the real trap of the question, which is that the Leader of the Free World shouldn’t talk about his underpants in public.

Will somebody please get these guys laid?  I mean, I know they’re too unappealing to lure in the GWU coeds on AOL chat, but can’t we take up a collection for them to get hookers?  It seems they feel left out of Foggo’s dominatrix parties and need a little action.

Anyone who has sexual information about Broder, Weisberg, Richard Cohen, Tim Russert, Sean Hannity (ick!) or any prominent pundit or GOP politician, send us an email.  These guys need some of their own medicine.  Maybe we’ll start our own FDL Page Six recurring feature.  We may or may not verify anything.  After all, if it’s "out there," we can print it, right Cokie? 

For anyone who doesn’t get the point, let me spell it out for your perverted stupid ass:  grown-ups don’t care what their neighbors do in bed with adults.  When you speculate, giggle, titter and gossip about all this (particularly in print), you’re a pervert.  You’re morally bankrupt. Now, to teach you a lesson, we may have to get into the sewer with you.  Hope you like the company, guys!

Last night I proposed in an email exchange that someone send a stripper to Broder at the WaPo offices.  If anyone wants to do it, be my guest.  Bring a camera.  The nightly cleanup crew will thank you.  They hate wiping up his keyboard.

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Pachacutec did not, as is commonly believed, die in 1471. To escape the tragic sight of his successors screwing up the Inca Empire he’d built, he fled east into the Amazon rain forest, where he began chewing lots of funky roots to get higher than Hunter Thompson ever dared. Oddly, these roots gave him not only a killer buzz, but also prolonged his life beyond what any other mortal has known, excluding Novakula. Whatever his doubts of the utility of living long enough to see old friends pop up in museums as mummies, or witness the bizarrely compelling spectacle of Katherine Harris, he’s learned a thing or two along the way. For one thing, he’s learned the importance of not letting morons run a country, having watched the Inca Empire suffer many civil wars requiring the eventual ruler to gain support from the priests and the national military. He now works during fleeting sober moments to build a vibrant progressive movement sufficiently strong and sustainable to drive a pointed stake through the heart of American “conservatism” forever. He enjoys a gay marriage, classic jazz and roots for the New York Mets.