Judy's Side (Rude Version):
Prison's gonna be rough for a man who voluntarily tells people to call him "Scooter," especially since that man's last name is the same as a brand of fruit. Yep, there's gonna be a mighty throwdown in the cellblock to see who gets to pull the poptop on I. Lewis Libby's can of peaches. And in the end, once Scooter's peaches are plundered, he's gonna be sold for a few packs of cigarettes to the homies by the b-ball court. Let's not even anticipate the penitentiary of horrors awaiting a man who lets another man call him "Turd Blossom."

For if there's anything we learned this weekend from the New York Times articles on Judith Miller's role in Plamegate (call Sunday's paper: "Suite: Judy WMD Eyes"), it's that Dick Cheney's number one guy, Scooter Libby, is already fucked, even before he passes through the prison gates (the Rude Pundit is aware that chances are that not only will no one in the Bush administration actually serve time for outing a CIA agent, but that pardons are inevitable- still, a boy can dream). Here's a guy who, after trying to discredit Joseph Wilson to anyone who'd listen, then obviously told reporters he never said it.

And then there's Judy's side (an interesting homonym for "Judicide," which is what the New York Times seems to have committed). In essence, here's what Judith Miller says: "I am an insider, you fuckin' peasants, and you are not worthy to lick my fucking boots. I was proudly the fuck toy of Scooter Libby. I screamed in delight when he shoved his fist into my kooz to turn me into a meat puppet. If Scooter says he's mad at the CIA because they're making President Bush look bad, then all Scooter has to do is shift his thumb on my clit and I'll scream it loud and clear. If Scooter wants to destroy Joseph Wilson, it's only the fucking useless editors who'll stand in the way. Oh, unhappy Scooter, how he confided in me that the CIA is comprised of pissant cocksuckers who would have the audacity to dare attempt to undermine our nation's proud march to war to find the weapons I said were there. So Scooter said, tickling my cooter with information. Scooter could have been anything he wanted to me. Senior administration official? Former Hill staffer? Rodeo attendee? Kitten fucker? All of them were true, so I felt no ethical qualms in identifying him as such. In the end, I wasn't wrong, though, because, you see, I'm just a reporter, I only reported what I was told, so Scooter, dear Scooter, would use the dildo he whittled out of an aspen tree on me again and again. And did I mention that I went to prison?" They are the words of someone who deluded herself into being a protective gatekeeper to those in power, the last clinging to a shred of self-respect over her being duped, made the fool, and done the bidding of masters.

Judy got played, man, like every sycophantic cock and cunt in history, everyone who thought they were really a part of an inner circle when, inevitably, they were just the disposable lackeys. While she was busy sucking off Ahmed Chalabi and the other crazed, greedy thugs of the Iraqi National Congress, while she was ridin' high with the WMD searchers, gettin' roughly fucked in jeeps by those she was embedded with, the real story was happening under her nose: the betrayal of a nation through a complacent media that was hungry to be accepted by those who despised it.

Judy can remember the day in Jackson Hole, Wyoming when she last saw Scooter Libby ("At a rodeo one afternoon, a man in jeans, a cowboy hat and sunglasses approached me"), but she cannot remember the name of a the source who gave her Valerie Plame's name. It's like saying you remember your fifteenth date, but you can't remember the first guy who went down on you. Or perhaps she doesn't remember because more than one person gave her the name. Oh, the questions that remain.

She may as well have said, "My notes tell me that at our first encounter, Scooter Libby fingerfucked me. At our second, he used a dildo. Fitzgerald asked if it was a vibrator. I told him my notes say, 'Doldo,' and that whether or not it vibrated, I cannot recall. My final Scooter conversation was phone sex, with Scooter telling me to stroke my throbbing reporter's pen tip as he described fucking Joseph Wilson and his wife at the same time. How surprised I was when I read Scooter's letter saying that he had never touched my pussy or talked about fucking me when my notes clearly say he did."

Everyone is pointing to George Clooney's encomium to the dead press in the flick Good Night and Good Luck as a way of seeing the role of the media in these empty times. But the Rude Pundit is reminded of another movie. There's a great moment involving Saul Rubinek as the weaselly writer from the Northeast in Clint Eastwood's film Unforgiven, who had made himself part of the story of Little Bill, Gene Hackman's vicious, torturing sheriff who sought to rid his town of "assassins." After Eastwood's Will Munny kills all the putative "good guys," Rubinek sidles up to Munny to wheedle his way into that story. Eastwood threatens to shoot him and the writer, who thought he had become one of the tough cowboys, goes scampering off into the rain-soaked night.