Res Ipsa Loquitur
I won't go over the demise today of Eliot Spitzer, the Beaners' Best Friend--you know, the guy who tried to pass out New York drivers' license to illegal aliens. (I almost wish he would have succeeded; maybe then all 30 million of the greasy beasts would have moved to New York.)
I will make one quick comment: apparently the FBI bugged him in that Washington hotel room a la Marion Barry, performing 101 Levantine deviations with Kristen the Hooker, on February 13th, i.e. right in the middle of one of the most hotly contested Democratic primaries in living memory. Apparently this hebe was so arrogant or so addicted to his perversions that he couldn't lay off and just take cold showers or even, God forbid, stay home with his wife at least until the convention in August.
Just like Senator Craig tap-dancing for a spot of anonymous buggery in that public toilet in the Minneapolis airport--weird and kinky sex seems to be an addiction with these suits who rule us, a compulsion that they cannot resist and must have, frequently, even if it places all of their power and wealth and influence at risk. Never mind their families, like that poor shell-shocked wife of Spitzer's at the press conference today, who seems to have been transformed into a zombie. Hopefully of the flesh-eating kind. Maybe she'll rip out Spitzer's brains tonight.