The Press Made Peggy Cry -- Hallucinations down, Street Jive Up Yo! Leaving the land of unicorns and pegasi behind, our brave earth-mother has decided to return to more traditional literature as she bemoans the liberal press. For they, not he, is responsible for Chimpy McFlightsuit's inability to put together, "herr", "hunter" and "field" into a coherent sentence. First Nooners treats the agent of the rapture gently, her loins moistening at his manly assertiveness and assurance. She dreams of him approaching and grabbing her violently, his hot breath upon the nape of her neck, his strong hands pawing at her, ripping apart her bodice and freeing her from the confines of matronly propriety. They fall to the ground entwined in mutual passion, finally liberating from its confines, the turgid little Dubya that lay beneath the codpiece... Whew! I don't know about you but I'm a little worked up...and substantially revolted. Like reading Lynne Cheney's Sisters. But then, coldly and starkly, the cold reality of life breaks in and their love founders unconsumated upon the shoals of a savage, sudden denouement. It was after the statement that things got more awkward. The president rambled and repeated talking points, playing for time as he tried to remember what he'd decided he was going to say in response to this question or that. Sometimes he remembered and became energized; sometimes he didn't. Heartbroken she reaches out angrily upon those foul cretins who had stolen their moment of bliss. But in so doing she finds the promise of sweet release, as if a hidden cache of D-Cells has been unearthed in her sock drawer. But here the press came to his rescue, and God bless them. They are so clearly carrying water for the left-liberal establishment, they were so clearly carrying water for the preening and partisan hacks who dominate the 9/11 commission, and the Washington Post's coverage of the news conference yesterday morning was so clearly teeing up Bob Woodward's next book, that the media nullified their hostility. They could have done some damage to the president with a grave and honest spirit of inquiry. Instead, they played left-wing Snidely Whiplash. They almost twirled their mustaches, and I don't mean only the women: Will you apologize, Mr. President? Do you feel personally responsible for Sept. 11? Do you think you're a loser as a communicator? What was your worst mistake? Do you really like that tie? Do you ever consider hanging yourself from a cornice in the East Room with your tie? When you look in the mirror do you feel mild disgust or just that feeling of shame where you sort of want to tear your face off and run screaming from the room? Don't they know that LOVE MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY YOU'RE SORRY? Oh the anger and injustice of it all, watching her beloved so treated she suddenly becomes a street poet... foshizle. But of course they wouldn't have asked these questions. Our press corps in those days was more like Americans than our press corps is today. They were both less self-hating and more appropriately anxious: Don't be killing our leaders in the middle of a war, don't be disheartening the people. Win and do the commentary later. Don't be a playa hata press corps. Ah, but there is but one last platitude to her Chimperor: More and more it seems to me Mr. Bush is not only Bill Clinton's successor but his exact opposite: Mr. Clinton perfectly poised and hollow inside, a man whose lack of compass left him unable to lead within the Oval Office but who gave a compelling public presentation of the presidency, and Mr. Bush a strong president with an obvious soul, decisive at the desk, but with no dazzling edifice. It's actually amazing that two such different men came so close together. Lucky for us, considering the history, that Mr. Bush was the one who came now. I do believe that those D-Cells came in handy during that last paragraph, if you know what I mean, even if the television reception did flicker a bit.