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Thursday, November 17, 2005

Peddy fired sans comment

And nor shall *I* comment on the Review's measured piece on the sacking of the functional equivalent of over-weening mayoralty.

Poor Dobbin.

I have been at the fugitive end of righteous sleuthing and it's a chilling sound when the pack catches your scent and the skeletons start rattling in the witch-hunted wardrobe.

He suffers from a consummate flake of a campaign honcho, capable of managing even Mother Teresa onto a fiery stake.

Olsen's day will come, and it will not be pretty.

They clearly do things differently in Scåndiwegia: Ølsen proclaims Peddy's firing to have been "handled improperly ... the penalty too severe".

Let me get this straight: the twerp now claims that his employer's "insider" status and effrontery in challenging our fragrant mayor unfairly changed the rules on duplicity and lying under oath, laying the Resumé Refurbisher open to criticism and questions of his fitness to retain employment under false pretenses.

In the lingo-franca of the fruitette of my loins ~ "Say what?"

So ... had he been like the rest of us mere mortals, he could have been hauled over the coals as a cut-throat child-molester and still looked forward to his Yuletide bonus and promotion in the New Year?

"What's the word I'm looking for, sweetie?"

"Dad, like duhhh"

"The very sentiment, child."

In this whole tracking of Cathy's Clown, let us not forget the heroines in this whole sordid business.

As I've mentioned, in a previous avatar I worked with certain authors on noising their works abroad, during which thankless operation we became close and out of which some of the scribblers flattered me with attributing some of their sales to my efforts and suggested we keep in touch with wherever life took me.

One pair of journos took on all the president's men, for whose 1974 UK edition of their book I played a small part in hawking it to the British media and book trade.

The duo's rapt interest in unfolding Peddygate thru my humble postings confirms that not even the big guys are grand for a tale of grass-rootings.

Speaking of whom, Bob W seems to have mastered the art of urban limeliting, while I hardly see anything of his eminently more grise compadre of the notebook, Carl.

Now that the Gnome has dropped this silly lip service to Genevan treatment of captives, I shall suggest "All the President's Manacles" as the prolific RW's next title.

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