I've always thought that one of the most underrated elements of the public pox that is Rush Limbaugh is the man's unalloyed, abject personal cowardice. There are the screened phone calls. There was that time when Nightline wanted him to appear on a panel and he insisted on appearing from his studio, surrounded by his books, rather than sit next to James Carville, who undoubtedly would have stared at him as though Rush were made of etouffee. There was the night in 1990 on which he (literally) nearly was booed off the stage while guest-hosting Pat Sajak's doomed talk venture. (Reports of the evening had Rush sweating like Victoria Falls when some people started yelling at him from the audience.) There was the cheap shot at then-teenaged Chelsea Clinton, which he sniggered at and then blamed on his tech staff. There was the part about Vince Foster's dying in a D.C. love nest rented by Hillary Clinton, which he subsequently sniveled around by claiming he was just passing on a rumor, rendering unto his broadcast empire the approximate credibility of an open sewer in Bangladesh. There was the endless mewling when ESPN canned him. There was sending the maid out to score his dope. There was his leaping into the embrace of the ACLU and the criminal-defense bar when he got busted. In fact, his entire career has been an unremitting drone about what people are doing what nasty things to poor widdle him, the most recent big bully being David Brock, who is committing the unpardonable crime of attempting to hold Limbaugh responsible for the gutless, unmanly way he does his business. We are hearing all the usual alibis -- "Out of context!" -- rather than a stalwart defense of what he actually said. We are fed doctored tapes and expurgated transcripts through his pals salted throughout the media.
Oh HELL yes! And Pierce didn't even mention the anal cyst! BOO-YAH!
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