The beacon shines, again.

The goodness and virtue oozing out of the Beltway elevates my soul. Is it any wonder that we are a shining beacon unto the world? Attorney General Eric Holder finally appoints a special prosecutor to look into allegations of CIA torture and that liberal senator from the liberal city of San Francisco, Dianne Feinstein raises her pinky and says, “Wait a minute!”

The timing is all wrong on this, she contends, “And candidly, I wish the attorney general had waited.” Hell, no sense rushing into these things. It’s not just timing we have to consider. There’s the image thing, and questions of national security. How will this affect the economy? How will it impact on the New York Mets? Will it delay badly-needed repairs to Michigan’s I-96?

Timing! Timing! Timing! Don’t leave home without it!

The good senator has other concerns. “Every day something kind of dribbles out into the public arena [Damned those informed citizens!] Very often it has mistakes. Very often it’s a half story. I think we need to get the whole story together and tell it in an appropriate way,” she said.

You’re so right, Senator! Did he bleed? Was it really blood, or did he just snort some ketchup while scarfing his Big Mac? If blood, how many milliliters? Was it pure blood or were flecks of viscera found floating in it? Did he cry, whimper or scream? Was he naked or clothed? Was he hanging from the ceiling by his hands or by his ankles?

Let’s wait until we get all the data; let’s wait until we alphabetize it, collate it, analyze it, hold it up to the light, refer it, discuss it, classify it, and table it for further consideration.

Then, of course, the Big Dick chimed in saying he would have no problem with torture that went beyond specific legal authorization. He then called the probe “political.” And he is so right! The political rift in America is between morality and amorality, and Cheney stands proudly and firmly with the party of amorality.

So moved was I by his utterance that the Lord God of Hosts came down and touched mine eyes and I had a vision in which I saw the Big Dick dancing naked save his wingtips, screaming into a dead phone, “Level it! Level it!” Spinning, spinning to keep the spattering blood off his wingtips while bloodied children sat staring in a circle, waiting for Uncle Dickey to tell them a story ‘til the earth cracked and the eternal flame charred and scorched their skin even as they sat silently waiting for the story to begin ‘til only the black dust of their bones remained and their parents fled the wingtips in an undulating swarm like lice leaving the cooled carcass of the newly dead, and my heart sang songs of potency and power, of ravaging the dead and breaking the weak to the thrumbulation of fife and drum beating the cadence of the damned.

O my soul! How you are seared by the goodness of our leaders! It’s enough to make a person go screaming back to a life of sin.