Dull, Yellowing Incisors
So to whom do those unsightly yellowing incisors belong to? That paragon of many virtues, Whacko Bush? That woman who goes to bed every night with her toys dreaming she's the rightful Mrs. Bush? The creepiest homo semi-sapiens on the planet, Donald Rumsfeld? Nevery mind, honey bun. They all bunk together, sorry Laura. This time the ugly rat roared Crusade! And failed. And continues to fail. Daily, things get worse.
Great, Statesman, Military Savant and Hero v. Ivory Tickling Ugly Upstart with a Nasty Attitude
Glory, glory Hallelujah! Battle of the Titan v. the Witch with the Yellowing Incisors. Today the news was replete with commentaries from one of the few honest men in Washington, who told one and all, long ago, that many, many more troops were going to be required if Porgie was going to play Crusades. Even poor King Richard the Lion Hearted knew you needed way more troops than you thought you could ever need. Today, the little men with the hellish yellowing incisors wouldn't know enough troops if Kinsheki bit them on their shiny hinies. Problem is, thousands are dying, and cedar-brained Whacko Bush still bestows his baisser on Rumsfeld's hiny.
Today, finally, Colin Powell found the strength to flatten 'Sleezza Rice. Full knockout, and about time.
Anthem for a Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,--
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
by
Wilfred Owen
Will the Yellow Incisored Rats on the Sinking USS Crusade take the high road or the low road? Oh, come on, it's not worth even betting a penny on this one.
Schuyler had kindly made us all drinks, and tonight he served Palm House Martinis, using a Grey Goose recipe. With the temperature changing daily, tonight was a perfect night for sipping our cocktails outdoors. Sure, some of us wore sweaters, but we were all comfortable.
The Dinner Gong
After the seriousness of tonight's conversation, we all welcomed the sound of our beloved old dinner gong. It always announces pleasurable things to come (even if on occasion it is sounded just to let a full-house of weekend guests that it's time to change for dinner.)
Charlotte made us a spectacular Czech Fish Soup with Spätzle. It was hearty soup, and fully deserving of one of our best Lustau Fino Sherries. Max had made some superb baguettes to go with the soup, and contentment was evident on all our faces.
With Schramsberg Blanc de Blancs, Marie Christine served some raisin-filled tamales we all found unusual and remarkable good. Tonight, because of he delicious tamales, was one of those nights we regretted our strict rule of small portions only, since many of us could have easily had several of her exquisite tamales.
Because of heavy demands on our time on the farms and ranches, we simplified dinner a bit, and tonight had Alex and Jane's Cuban Ripened Plantain Crusted Chicken. The touch of Habanero chile added just the right note of spice the dish required, and paired with a Lockwood Chardonnay, the dish, served with simple, fluffy white rice with carrots and peas was magnificent.
With Grand Marnier, we had small custard tarts, and then returned to the great room to spend some time with the teenagers. Talk tonight was all about foals, calves, and baby animals of all kinds. Spring here on the farms and ranches means just that, much to our pleasure.
After Max's thick, dark after-dinner coffee, we all headed for our respective farms and ranches, knowing that some chores still were waiting to be completed. However, despite the delight of a good dinner and the delight of all the baby animals, our thoughts were with the young who are dying so needlessly for the wanton perversion of a megalomaniac at the helm of the Crusader Ship.
Summary
Some pretty nasty rats are at the helm of a sinking ship, and they keep snapping their horrible yellowing incisors at us and at the entire Muslim world. Today, finally, Colin Powell found the will to confront Condosleezza Rice and put her in her place. It's about time, and hopefully it will set off another chain reaction and more patriots will call a spade a spade.
