Arlen Specter - the Senate's Bottom:
So let's say, and why not, that you're a ripped gay man and you're cruisin' Washington Square West in Philadelphia, lookin' to do some fuckin'. You fresh-shaved your balls and your head and you got the black leather vest on, the studs, like a fuckin' signal flare, indicating that you are pitchin' tonight. As you hop on your Harley, you have one mantra for the evening: "Hey, that's great, but I'm still gonna fuck you." Because you are such a heapin' helpin' of man-meat, you pretty much get to place that cock anywhere you want. In the ass of some closeted soap opera star or in the mouth of a local legislator or on top of the head of some fucked-up guy whose father put his dick on his head in the shower one day when the guy was just a kid (thanks, Dad). You get the picture.

So you're doin' your best cruisin', hittin' the Bike Shop, the steamhouse, wondering who's gonna be luck enough to get a load of your man goo blown on his butt cheeks tonight. Suddenly, in a skanky back room leather bar, the kind without a sign, just surrepititious whispers lettin' you know it's there, you're approached by a wimpy little prison punkette who looks like he's just started workin' out and wants to give those muscles a try. He's kind of a twink, but then again, you kinda like hurtin' the twinks. The twink asks you what you like. You tell him all kinds of shit, involving scrotum pulleys and arm-sized dildos, things that make the twink sweat just thinking about, but mostly, you just wanna fuck some new meat. The twink doesn't say much, but wants to ride your Harley, says it gets him off, and you take him back to your Center City loft.

The twink says he's not really into all those implements and tools. It's late - you're willing to forgo the sphincter-spreader. You say, "Hey, that's great, but I'm still gonna fuck you." You get ready to throw him onto the stairs, but the twink says he wants the bed. You say, "Hey, that's great, but I'm still gonna fuck you." The twink says he'd like a big glass of gin first. You hand it to him and say, "Hey, that's great, but I'm still gonna fuck you." The twink says you're being rough, but you say, "You wanted to be the bottom; now you know I'm not raping your ass." You got him face down on the bed, ass high, ready for you, and the twink says he wants you to use a condom. You are not gonna let this little twink bitch get in the way of your pleasure, and you say, "Why don't we say it's an option?"

The twink thinks for a moment, prostate quivering in anticipation, and says, "Fine, go ahead and ream me out."

So it was that Arlen Specter "negotiated" with the White House over the oversight of warrantless NSA spying, if by "negotiation," you mean, "Surrender." In essence, Specter wore down the White House with his incredible compromise-creatin' skills and got the Bush administration to agree that it had the option to get the FISA court to say whether or not the program was constitutional. That way, of course, nothing would "lessen the institutional authority of the president," as Specter said. Oh, and in another magnificent use of his powers of persuasion, Specter got the White House to agree that they didn't have to make any decisions made by the FISA court public. In other words, Arlen Specter walked up to White House and agreed to let the White House do whatever it wanted, with the extra kick in the nuts that it has the glossy cover of congressional approval.

Maybe DC negotiations are too subtle for the rest of us to understand, but it sure seems like Specter walked into the dragon's cave, got his limbs burned to stumps, and declared he had stopped the beast. Specter added that this means the President doesn't have a "blank check." Well, no, Bush would pretty much have a signed and dated check with the figure left empty.

Leaving Washington, Specter, his work in DC done, heads to Philly to find that bald leather guy one more time. A he-whore's work is never done.