This year, the dog days definitely dropped the hammer, sending me into a blogging torpor. Upper 90s and amazonian humidity do nothing for anyone's mental acuity, that's for sure.
Really, though, after Bill Frist deftly (and despicably) avoided formalizing procedures for detainee treatment by poleaxeing the $491 billion defense bill, and the Preznit moved ahead with his long-expected, end-run, recess appointment of John Bolton, August was nothing but the worst sort of bloviating and bitchery on both sides.
John Roberts gets tapped for the SCOTUS nomination and both sides scramble to find something in his scant judicial record to either boost him or blast him. Good luck.
Bush hits the road for five weeks of bike riding, brush clearing, and playing cowboy dress-up, and those that aren't saying he richly deserves the break are swearing on a stack that it's an unconscionable dereliction of duty. News flash: He doesn't and it's not.
Finally, Ferris Bush's Month Off set the stage for the Cindy Sheehan circus to come to town. She a voice in the wilderness, she's a pawn of the radical left. She's a grieving mother, she's "the bitch in the ditch." I don't know what she is or if anyone's pulling her strings, but I know this: She asked for a reason her son died and no one's been able to come up with a good one.
Freedom and democracy sound nice (granted, not necessarily from from the cab of a pick-up as it plows over memorial crosses), but neither of those ideas are recalled by a constitution that stipulates "No law can be passed that contradicts the undisputed rules of Islam."
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