John Yoo Puts On a Few Extra Robes and In Time, Becoming Threadbare, Sheds Them Off as the Serpent Its Skin

The telegraph wires on the following day were kept busy. Here, the good John Yoo washes the blood from his face. Your field of poppies and daises, Professor Yoo, is miraculously transformed into a pit of furious gray specters and howling red spirits. The mule becomes kickish and resty.

From the plagues I have named, Sarah Palin wheedles and truckles after the first contact and the vibrations of enthusiasm and flattery that follow -- the brass band, the electric tramway between two rows of bookshops.

I have a premonition that things are not going to end well. What talk have we wasted. At this hour of the day they treat me like a schoolgirl -- the servile spouters in the land are as plenty as summer flies. Hence, the plasters of conservative homeopathists, the operations suggested by political leeches, the radical cures of social quacks.