A country road. A Mercedes-Benz parked outside Los Angeles County prison. Evening.
Paris Hilton, sitting in the driver’s seat, is trying to remove her “house arrest” electronic bracelet. She pulls at it with both hands, panting. She gives up, exhausted, rests, tries again.
Enter Scooter Libby.
PARIS: (giving up again). I can’t do it.
SCOOTER: (advancing with short, stiff strides, legs wide apart). I’m beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I’ve tried to put it from me, saying “Scooter, be reasonable, you haven’t yet outed a CIA agent.” And I resumed the struggle. (He broods, musing on the struggle. Turning to Paris.) So there you are again.
PARIS: Like, do I know you? What, are you a friend of my father?
SCOOTER: I’m glad to see you back. I thought you were gone forever.
PARIS: Baloney sandwiches. They wanted me to eat baloney sandwiches. And wear orange. Orange clashes with my tan.
SCOOTER: Two prisoners, together at last! We’ll have to celebrate this. But how? (He reflects.) Get out of the car so that I can hug you.
PARIS: (irritably). Ew. Like, I don’t think so. Not unless you’ve got a check for at least one million dollars.
SCOOTER: When I think of it . . . all these years . . . but for what we’ve accomplished in this country . . . (Decisively.) You’d be nothing more than a little heap of bones at the present minute, no doubt about it.
PARIS: What the hell are you talking about? I already AM a little heap of bones. A very expensive, very important little heap of bones, I might add.
SCOOTER: (gloomily). It’s too much for one man. (Pause. Cheerfully.) On the other hand what’s the good of losing heart now, that’s what I say. Dick and I should have thought of it a million years ago, not back in the nineties.
PARIS: Oh, shut up and help me off with this stupid bracelet. It’s not fair. I provide a public service for the world.
SCOOTER: Dick and me, hand in hand at the top of the Rotunda. We were respectable in those days. Now it’s too late. Dick won’t talk to me. (Paris gives up on bracelet, starts tearing at her shirt.) What are you doing?
PARIS: I need to get to a party for a young Greek shipping magnate tonight. What are you, retarded?
SCOOTER: Bears. And sticks. And aspens. Show me.
PARIS: Buy my video. (finally pulls off bracelet, pulls shirt off, as well)
SCOOTER: Suppose we repented.
PARIS: Like, for what? My being born? I’m not apologizing for being born. Do you know how well-adored and well-paid I am?
SCOOTER: Oh . . . (He reflects.) We wouldn’t have to go into the details. (Pause.) Judy!
PARIS: (irritably). My name’s not Judy, unless you’ve got a check for a million dollars.
SCOOTER: Did you ever read the Bible?
PARIS: The Bible . . . (she reflects.) Lizzy Grubman told me to carry it around after I got sentenced, y’know, like, to get sympathy from the judge.
SCOOTER: Do you remember the Gospels?
PARIS: Is that a band? Did I sleep with any of them?
SCOOTER: Bush said to wait for the sign.
PARIS: It’s not fair!
SCOOTER: No. Indeed.
Is it me or was there an oh-so-subtle shift in the national zeitgeist last week? Scooter Libby gets 30 months in prison, Judge Walton delivers a most satisfying smackdown on Alan Dershowitz and Robert Bork in a footnote, Bush was THIIIIIIIIIS close to barfing in Angela Merkel’s lap, and Paris Hilton, the personification of this country’s adolescent fascination with celebrity entitlement (see: George W. Bush, insufferable, talentless boor) decides that she doesn’t like prison and winds up forced to serve her entire sentence ?
It is, as they say, “schadenfreudelicious”. In honor of all that prison time, I present an array of more . . . visual . . . snark.
And it really doesn’t get any more visual than this, via Roy, discussing the eternally batshit insane Michelle Malkin:
she has stepped above her pay grade, handling a compare-and-contrast structure in much the same way that General Mapache handles the gatling gun in The Wild Bunch: with enthusiasm but no sense of direction.
Roger Ailes scoffs at the idea that Scooter Libby is a “fallen soldier.” As if. And Outside the Tent‘s Clif scoffs at Midge Decter. But then again, who wouldn’t? Jon Swift writes a letter beseeching Judge Walton to spare Scooter.
The simple line verse
of D. Aristophanes
makes me laugh out loud.
If you haven’t acquainted yourself with Culture of Truth‘s liveblogging skillz, you owe it to yourself to do so STAT.
Commandante Agi at This Blog Will Self-Destruct in Five Seconds got his hands on the other stories about Rep. William Jefferson on Fox News.
I haven’t picked on Condi for a long time. Thank dog that Princess Sparkle Pony keeps us up to date.
Via Oliver Willis, people are stupid. No, I’m serious. They’re really stupid.
New Pairodimes‘ Trifecta reads the Romney sons’ blog. Really, who names their kid “Tagg”?
Desi at Mia Culpa made me snort coffee out mah nose with this gif.
[photo of Bush: REUTERS/Damir Sagolj]