I shall savor the sight of federal Marshals dragging Mary Frances Berry, kicking and clawing at the carpet, off the premises of the Civil Rights Commission.

“…We expect this to get ugly real fast, but we don’t care. She has served her term. We will thank her, and she will be expected to leave. Now.”

And if she doesn’t?

“That is one reason why they have U.S. Marshals,” says the source. “And we have been told that if we need to use them, we can. We will not allow this woman to hold this Administration hostage.”

The Republicans will be able to sell videos of it for fundraisers for years.

…still in charge of the Federal Air Marshall Service?

Thomas Quinn, director of the Federal Air Marshal Service (FAMS), paid a surprise visit to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport on Thanksgiving to thank the law-enforcement officials for their holiday work. He reportedly was angered when nearly 30 marshals deplaned and only one was dressed satisfactorily.

In response, supervisors are being assigned to airports nationwide to inspect the air cops before and after flights to make sure business suits or sports coats are being worn, according to numerous memos issued last week and obtained by The Washington Times.

I wish we’d had a better choice last month.

Over at Kevin Drum’s place (Kevin’s post is worth a read, too–I may respond to it later if I get time):

Totalitarianism is right here, right up in each of our faces every minute of every day. It is the Republican Party, and not a moment’s thought or effort can be diverted from fighting it until it has been destroyed without trace. This will take three generations, and will leave the country with one third the population and one ten-thousandth the economy that it has today.

Then the country must be rebuilt. That will take a further six generations.

THEN, perhaps, we may once more indulge in the [very great and irresponsible] luxury of wondering what is going on elsewhere in the world. But not before.

Hmmm…well, you know what Stalin said about omelettes and eggs.

Peggy Noonan has a gracious, balanced and I suspect correct ode to Dan Rather and his career.

People are complicated, careers are complicated, motives are complicated. Dan Rather did some great work on stories that demanded physical courage. He loved the news, and often made it look like the most noble of enterprises. He had guts and fortitude. Those stories he covered that touched on politics were unfortunately and consistently marred by liberal political bias, and in this he was like too many in his profession. But this is changing. The old hegemony has given way. The old dominance is over. Good thing. Great thing. Onward

Janet Daley thinks that London needs a Rudy Giuliani to clean up the crime. Her column doesn’t mention the real issue, though, which is that the British policy against self defense has created incentives for the human predators that infest their nation.

Perry DeHavilland has much more insight into the problem, as he relates a tragedy that happened to his neighbor.

Matt Labash has a long, but entertaining description of a recent visit to Little Rock, and a walk down mammary lane:

However many rotating exhibits the library hosts, none will ever be dedicated to Connie Hamzy, aka “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the rock’n’roll supergroupie who was immortalized in a Grand Funk Railroad song. Connie had the distinction of being the first of Clinton’s many “bimbo eruptions” when, in 1992, she told Penthouse the tale of how Clinton, then governor of Arkansas, had approached her while she was lying beside a hotel pool, and said, “I want to get with you.” According to Connie, they couldn’t find a hotel room, so instead they made do with a discreet corner for groping. Clinton denied the charges, and Newsweek reported that Hillary wanted to destroy Connie’s credibility. Hamzy later passed a polygraph, preserving her reputation–such as it is.

The years haven’t been kind to Connie. She’s been arrested for public intoxication and for endangering a minor she allowed to drive her car. Today she survives on disability (“my nut money,” she calls the compensation for her bipolar disorder) and earnings from a part-time job passing out strollers at the zoo. Her shoebox house in a bad neighborhood in Little Rock is a monument to cat-hair and bong smoke. When I arrive, she is finishing a photo-shoot with a photographer from Spin, who looks like he’s just been through a war.

Apparently, Connie has spent the photo session on the sauce and the weed, and they’ve experienced all manner of creative differences. Plus, she tried to hit on him. “I told her I was gay,” he says, as he hurriedly loads equipment into his car. “I’ve GOT to get out of here. Good luck.” When I walk into her living room, Connie’s still muttering about the photographer’s arty pretentiousness. “Plus, he’s a fag,” she says.

Her house is a rock’n’roll museum, full of drumsticks and guitar picks that she earned the hard way. Connie has slept with most of the rockers in the photos, or at least their roadies. So we play a quick game of Who Have You Done? I point to a picture of Fleetwood Mac, a Clinton favorite. “Did ’em all,” she says. “Even the women?” I ask. “Close, but no cigar,” she sighs. Connie’s a hard woman, her voice is all sandpaper and cigarettes. And being a supergroupie, she tends toward the friendly side. I’m not in her house five minutes before she grabs my behind. When I ask how old she is, she responds, “How old do you think I am?,” pulls up her sweater, and bares her breasts. (She’s 49; her breasts might very well be younger.)

Matt Labash has a long, but entertaining description of a recent visit to Little Rock, and a walk down mammary lane:

However many rotating exhibits the library hosts, none will ever be dedicated to Connie Hamzy, aka “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the rock’n’roll supergroupie who was immortalized in a Grand Funk Railroad song. Connie had the distinction of being the first of Clinton’s many “bimbo eruptions” when, in 1992, she told Penthouse the tale of how Clinton, then governor of Arkansas, had approached her while she was lying beside a hotel pool, and said, “I want to get with you.” According to Connie, they couldn’t find a hotel room, so instead they made do with a discreet corner for groping. Clinton denied the charges, and Newsweek reported that Hillary wanted to destroy Connie’s credibility. Hamzy later passed a polygraph, preserving her reputation–such as it is.

The years haven’t been kind to Connie. She’s been arrested for public intoxication and for endangering a minor she allowed to drive her car. Today she survives on disability (“my nut money,” she calls the compensation for her bipolar disorder) and earnings from a part-time job passing out strollers at the zoo. Her shoebox house in a bad neighborhood in Little Rock is a monument to cat-hair and bong smoke. When I arrive, she is finishing a photo-shoot with a photographer from Spin, who looks like he’s just been through a war.

Apparently, Connie has spent the photo session on the sauce and the weed, and they’ve experienced all manner of creative differences. Plus, she tried to hit on him. “I told her I was gay,” he says, as he hurriedly loads equipment into his car. “I’ve GOT to get out of here. Good luck.” When I walk into her living room, Connie’s still muttering about the photographer’s arty pretentiousness. “Plus, he’s a fag,” she says.

Her house is a rock’n’roll museum, full of drumsticks and guitar picks that she earned the hard way. Connie has slept with most of the rockers in the photos, or at least their roadies. So we play a quick game of Who Have You Done? I point to a picture of Fleetwood Mac, a Clinton favorite. “Did ’em all,” she says. “Even the women?” I ask. “Close, but no cigar,” she sighs. Connie’s a hard woman, her voice is all sandpaper and cigarettes. And being a supergroupie, she tends toward the friendly side. I’m not in her house five minutes before she grabs my behind. When I ask how old she is, she responds, “How old do you think I am?,” pulls up her sweater, and bares her breasts. (She’s 49; her breasts might very well be younger.)

Matt Labash has a long, but entertaining description of a recent visit to Little Rock, and a walk down mammary lane:

However many rotating exhibits the library hosts, none will ever be dedicated to Connie Hamzy, aka “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the rock’n’roll supergroupie who was immortalized in a Grand Funk Railroad song. Connie had the distinction of being the first of Clinton’s many “bimbo eruptions” when, in 1992, she told Penthouse the tale of how Clinton, then governor of Arkansas, had approached her while she was lying beside a hotel pool, and said, “I want to get with you.” According to Connie, they couldn’t find a hotel room, so instead they made do with a discreet corner for groping. Clinton denied the charges, and Newsweek reported that Hillary wanted to destroy Connie’s credibility. Hamzy later passed a polygraph, preserving her reputation–such as it is.

The years haven’t been kind to Connie. She’s been arrested for public intoxication and for endangering a minor she allowed to drive her car. Today she survives on disability (“my nut money,” she calls the compensation for her bipolar disorder) and earnings from a part-time job passing out strollers at the zoo. Her shoebox house in a bad neighborhood in Little Rock is a monument to cat-hair and bong smoke. When I arrive, she is finishing a photo-shoot with a photographer from Spin, who looks like he’s just been through a war.

Apparently, Connie has spent the photo session on the sauce and the weed, and they’ve experienced all manner of creative differences. Plus, she tried to hit on him. “I told her I was gay,” he says, as he hurriedly loads equipment into his car. “I’ve GOT to get out of here. Good luck.” When I walk into her living room, Connie’s still muttering about the photographer’s arty pretentiousness. “Plus, he’s a fag,” she says.

Her house is a rock’n’roll museum, full of drumsticks and guitar picks that she earned the hard way. Connie has slept with most of the rockers in the photos, or at least their roadies. So we play a quick game of Who Have You Done? I point to a picture of Fleetwood Mac, a Clinton favorite. “Did ’em all,” she says. “Even the women?” I ask. “Close, but no cigar,” she sighs. Connie’s a hard woman, her voice is all sandpaper and cigarettes. And being a supergroupie, she tends toward the friendly side. I’m not in her house five minutes before she grabs my behind. When I ask how old she is, she responds, “How old do you think I am?,” pulls up her sweater, and bares her breasts. (She’s 49; her breasts might very well be younger.)

That’s what the headline of this story should have been. Strange that the UPI reporter is either unaware of M. Chirac’s legal problems, or chose not to mention them. They would seem quite relevant to his motivation for another term.

This is pretty disgusting. As one commenter says, that’s one store chain to knock off my shopping list this year.

That it can be hip to wear something like this is a testament to the failure of our educational system, from K-12 through the academy.

[Via Laughing Wolf]