DROP A DIME, SLIME!
Have you noticed how Johnny Quest and Hadji keep telling us they know Osama bin Laden’s home address?
“[What about] the Superhighway of Terror between Pakistan and Afghanistan where my helicopter was forced* down…John McCain wants to know where Bin Ladin and the Gates of Hell are? I can tell him where. That’s where Al Qaida is. That’s where Bin Ladin is. It’s not in the country of Iraq.”
“John McCain likes to say that he’ll follow bin Laden to the Gates of Hell – but he won’t even go to the cave where he lives.”
Since the Man from U.N.C.L.E. and the Man from U.R.K.E.L. have bin Laden’s street address, isn’t it incumbent on them–especially on this day–to give that information to the real authorities?
C’mon, heroes; give Homeland a call. You can even remain anonymous–if it’s possible to be any more anonymous than you’ve already been in this fight.
*By the way, Sen. Mitty’s helicopter was “forced” down–by bad weather. Because he and John Kerry had insisted on going up in very marginal conditions in the first place, thus demonstrating their mad command skilz.
UPDATE: For Your Eyes Only: The Spy Who Revised and Extended Me
“His Middle Name is “Danger”–and his Running Mate’s Middle Name is–well, We’re Not Allowed to Talk about That!”
Here’s an excerpt from the newest book in the “Senators At War: The Delaware Destroyer” series, written by Lt. Sgt. Joe “Chesty Hairplug” Biden, Vector Victor Victoria, 101st Platoon Balloon Brigade. It’s entitled “The Hunt for Reds in Dover: Black Hair Down”:
With my cocked .45 in one hand and my loaded New York Times in the other, I made my way to the cockpit. I knocked on the door. Nothing. So I kicked it open. Judging from the gash on his forehead, the pilot was unconscious from where the door had hit him. Poor bastard. How was I supposed to know he was coming to open the door?
Settling into his seat, I pulled the stick back hard, hoping to gain some altitude. No such luck. Visibility was slipping away now, and the night was almost as thick an IRS addendum on the depreciation allowance tables for solar and renewable energy credits.
I wondered if she would be waiting for me when this mission was over. I wondered if I should turn on the little “No Smoking” signs. I wondered ‘Ya know, why do we even have those signs–smoking has been totally banned for 20 years?”–and then I realized “Hey-I don’t have to decide–that’s above my pay grade!”
With darkness closing in on me like Bill Clinton’s Arkansas state troopers around a frightened cocktail waitress, I jerked the stick to starboard in a desperate attempt to get the craft to respond. Nothing. I jerked the stick back to port; still nothing. And then it hit me; “Hey–I don’t even know the difference between starboard and port!”
Suddenly, I sensed danger. It was the same feeling I got once when I was served in a Vietnamese restaurant. The tingle of danger reminded me of the hot, burning truth: “Hey; I’m missing “Hardball”!”
That’s when I heard the footsteps. I checked my .45. It was still cold, so I finished drinking it. The enemy was nearly here. I grabbed my parachute as the voices got closer…
“Amtrak security, Senator–what are you doing in engineer’s cab, sir?”
Starboard’s the one on the left, right?