Wait, did somebody say something?
Oh fer Christ’s sweet sake.
Bolton: Gabbard’s Extreme Views ‘Are on a Different Planet’ — She’s ‘Unqualified’ to Lead Intelligence
Former National Security Advisor John Bolton claimed Tuesday on CNN’s “Newsroom” that President-elect Donald Trump’s pick to lead the intelligence community former Rep. Tulsi Gabbard’s (D-HI) views were “on a different planet.”Host Jim Acosta said, “We’ve seen Matt Gaetz withdraw his nomination for attorney general. Should Tulsi Gabbard do the same for Director of National Intelligence?”
Bolton said, “Well look, she said many things publicly that I think disqualify her. These are not just because her views are extreme. They are on a different planet. they are the views of somebody who doesn’t understand anything about American interests. And to put her in charge of the office of the Director of National Intelligence I think, is malpractice. I think the effect it will have on foreign governments saying we’re not sharing intelligence with the United States if it’s going to come into the hands of somebody like that.”
He continued, “There are a lot of claims out there that’s why the basic practice of administration after administration and Senate after Senate, for all senior appointees, but particularly people nominated to sensitive national security positions, is before the Senate votes on them. they get a full field FBI background investigation. This is not picking on Tulsi Gabbard or anybody else. This is how you find out what’s really going on with with all of them.”
Bolton added, “This is a bad nominee I think of all the nominees Trump has put forward so far she and Matt Gaetz were in a class by themselves.”
Yeh, yeh, yeh. Whyn’tcha just shut your cakehole already, be of use for once, and go take yourself a flying fuck at a plate-glass window, asshole-eyes. At least THAT would have some appreciable entertainment value, with the likely added benefit of your being sliced to ribbons when the glass shatters as your mortally wounded ass sails through it, resulting in a blood-soaked, butchered meatpile inside the chosen establishment.—ideally, a dingy dive-bar in late afternoon, not too crowded, but by no means totally deserted either. A library; a vintage clothing store; a cigar/tobacco shop; a bakery; a bodega—none of those would have quite the same ooomph as a good old-school gin joint, in my view. At least in one of those alcoholically-correct barrooms, there’ll be plenty of day-drinking Old Soaks on hand as eyewitnesses for the blessed event.
Regardless of its commercial focus, the owner of said establishment doubtless won’t be too terribly chuffed at needing to get his broken window replaced all of a sudden-like, let alone the timbers-shivering prospect of trying to wheedle one of his lowlier employees—a barback, a busboy, a dishwasher, let’s say—into rolling out the mop and bucket to swab up the nightmarish lake of congealing gore and/or gobbets of shredded flesh without him/her huffily downing tools and stalking out sans the customary two weeks’ notice at the first intimation of an assignment as onerous as that.
On further reflection, however, the proprietor will fast come to realize that the former NSA’s spectacular swan-dive swan song was well worth the attendant expense, effort, and inconvenience for himself and his luckless lower-echelon staff. Upon such improbable wings have great fortunes, reputations, even legends taken flight and soared off into American history. Ask any owner of a Midtown Manhattan eatery in which a prominent Mafioso got whacked before a roomful of diners during a busy dinner shot about how said whacking affected his bottom line ever after, he’ll tell ya all about it: reservations booked solid for a year in advance; walk-in customers standing in lines at the front entrance that extend for six or seven long Avenue blocks; three-figure cash bribes slipped to maitre d’s to purchase a shitty table by the door to the kitchen; SRO in the bar area with patrons jammed in four deep to while away the hours with a high-octane libation or three as they wait for their ticket number to be called by the hostess, etc.
What the hey: five’ll getcha ten that nasty ol’ floor was overdue for some serious scrub-uppery anyhoo, even before the self-made oaf Bolton conjured the unique notion that it’d be a swell idea to attempt conjugal relations with a plate-glass window, capping off the unforgettable extravaganza by being rendered into tender, juicy Long Pig Kibbles & Bits (just add liquid, it make its own gravy!™) on the floor—flaccid, freshly julienned micropenis out, a-dangle, and in ready view.
Come ON, man! Stop pussyfooting around and just DO it already. Your public breathlessly awaits; don’t leave ‘em twisting in the wind like this, get right on down to brass tacks and git ‘er DONE, big fella! Beats those wan, deadly dull talking-head turns as a Faux News “expert guest-analyst” all hollow, and you know it every bit as well as everybody else does.
In any event, I gotta say that I do find it simply too, too adorable that Bloviatin’ Blowhard Bolton—a pluperfect dick with ears if ever there was one; the sine qua non, the ne plus ultra, the cum-laude instantiation of this grotesque de-evolutionary sub-strain—still somehow dares to dream that anybody gives a moist fart for anything he might say, on any topic whatsoever. It’s pathetic when you think on it, to be frank. One could almost pity the poor, deluded lower-bowel obstruction.
Almost.
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