SOBRAN'S --
The Real News of the Month
March 2006
Volume 13, Number 3
Editor: Joe Sobran
Publisher: Fran Griffin (Griffin Communications)
Managing Editor: Ronald N. Neff
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CONTENTS
Features
-> Gray November, Coming Up
-> Spring Fevers
-> Comedy: A Manifesto
-> Looking for Truth
Nuggets (plus electronic Exclusives)
"Reactionary Utopian" Columns Reprinted in This Issue
FEATURES
{{ MATERIAL DROPPED OR CHANGED SOLELY FOR REASONS OF
SPACE APPEARS IN DOUBLE CURLY BRACKETS. EMPHASIS IS
INDICATED BY THE PRESENCE OF "EQUALS" SIGNS AROUND THE
EMPHASIZED WORDS. }}
Gray November, Coming Up
(page 1)
This is what we call a midterm election year, and it
may be the most convulsive one since 1994. President Bush
and his party, who barely a year ago had it all, have
plunged to their lowest level of popularity ever, and the
Democrats are hoping to regain at least one house of
Congress, maybe both, this fall. Bush's conduct is widely
seen as incompetent, illegal, and even unconstitutional.
His staunchest supporters don't show much enthusiasm
anymore, and some Democrats are murmuring about
everything from censure to impeachment. Unlikely, but no
longer unthinkable.
The pundits agree that neither party has found a
compelling theme, but the Democrats may not need one.
Disgust with the Republicans may be such a seismic force
that the voters won't be very particular about reasons
for chucking them out at the first opportunity. My old
friend Fred Barnes (we used to be neighbors) has written
a book praising Bush for "redefining" American
conservatism. Well, if that's an achievement, let's give
credit where credit is due. Certainly Bush has left
conservatism, as popularly understood, unrecognizable.
After repudiating "nation-building" during the 2000
campaign, Bush adopted it with a vengeance after 9/11:
his presidency has been defined by his announced mission
of "global democratic revolution." Such talk used to make
conservatives shudder. Even his father was willing to
settle for a "new world order" -- a comparatively minor
adjustment, involving little bloodshed. Old Bush, it's
true, did agree to raise new taxes, but this was because
he realized that Big Government had to be paid for
eventually, and, unlike his son, he didn't favor INFINITE
Government.
It's not that I want the Democrats in power. But
there is no longer much reason to prefer the Republicans,
and a return to "gridlock" -- the mutual frustration that
is all we can pray for in a two-party system -- looks
like the last, if not exactly best, hope for democracy.
Unfortunately, our Constitution makes no provision for a
military coup; so much for the vaunted wisdom of the
Framers. (Should we be grateful that our generals don't
see the Constitution as a living document?)
The pressing issue this year is the Iraq war. The
Democrats are divided about it, but despite growing
opposition to it among their base, they don't oppose it
in principle; both parties agree that "world leadership"
-- a sunny euphemism for global empire -- is America's
vocation. They have tactical differences (mostly
opportunistic) about what this historic role requires
here and now, and of course the Democrats are glad to
exploit Bush's "quagmire" now that the public is
disillusioned with it.
As usual, the question this fall will be not whether
we'll get bigger government -- that's a given -- but
which brand of tyranny we're likely to get and how much.
"Faith, there's small choice among rotten apples."
Spring Fevers
(page 2)
Peter Beinart of THE NEW REPUBLIC, one of the wisest
young liberals around, says it's time for one of Bush's
friends to tell him, "Your presidency isn't hanging by a
thread. Your presidency is over. You bet it on the war in
Iraq, and you lost." With his own party deserting him,
any domestic agenda he had is dead too. So, says Beinart,
why not just act honorably from here on out?
* * *
TIME magazine is freaking out about global warming.
It isn't just coming -- it's here! The debate is over!
Moral: The government must take immediate action to save
the planet! Funny, wasn't that the same moral we drew
when the population explosion happened a generation ago?
The real danger isn't these notional crises, but the
government's responses to them. Unless we reduce the
power of government =immediately,= we face the certainty
of even =more= government.
* * *
Two distinguished professors have published a long
article critical of the Israel lobby, and you'll =never=
guess what they're being accused of. Hint: What is Hitler
best remembered for? Right. Judging by the frequency of
these charges, far greater than in Hitler's heyday, I can
conclude only that this must be the Golden Age of
Anti-Semitism.
* * *
Baseball fans are getting set to boo their lungs out
when Barry Bonds breaks the lifetime home-run records of
Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron. In the hearts of those who love
the game, Bonds will never be a hero, but, shall we say,
a walking asterisk. He still insists he has never taken
steroids -- knowingly, that is. He can't help it if
someone slipped them into his Vaseline, can he? Maybe it
depends what your definition of "steroids" is.
* * *
Anyway, Sadaharu Oh's record still appears a long
way off.
* * *
Some are talking about a Rice versus Clinton race in
2008, but Condi says she's not running. So, after eight
years of George W. Bush, what eligible Republican might
beat Hillary? I see only one: Laura Bush. Think how
dramatic a Bush versus Clinton race could be! Two first
ladies. But Laura is better looking, she's less abrasive,
and she has the indispensable training our next president
will need: She's used to cleaning up after George.
* * *
My least favorite spectator sport is college
basketball, and I was one of the very few Virginians
untouched by the mania for George Mason University's
amazing team this year. But in the end, even I succumbed
and watched the big game against Florida with passion.
Why? Because GMU's sudden fame may inspire curiosity
about who the great George Mason was, and because a
championship would boost the school's excellent economics
department. Of course GMU was flattened.
* * *
As I observed last year, Americans who think America
should behave like other countries are called
"isolationists," whereas other countries that behave like
America are called "rogue nations." Though I disagree
with those who want Bush to nuke Mecca, they can't
reasonably be accused of isolationism.
Comedy: A Manifesto
(pages 3-5)
"The world is a tragedy to those who feel, and a
comedy to those who think," said Horace Walpole. Or is it
the other way around? Or was it Robert Walpole?
In any case, I endorse the general idea. At age 60,
I've done about enough feeling for one lifetime. My
deepest emotions are pretty well worn out, and by now I'm
ready to leave the sterner sentiments to the younger
generation. Sin, war, abortion, politics, official lies
-- in my time I've gotten suitably indignant about them
all, and I think I may now consider my duty done, as
regards them. Not that I've changed my mind about these
things, but let the kids tackle them now. From here on
out, it's comedy for me.
Robert McCrum's excellent new biography of P.G.
Wodehouse, WODEHOUSE: A LIFE (Norton), made up my mind.
Wodehouse, maybe the greatest comic novelist in the
English language, seems to have known all along what I've
only just come to realize. If you can't change the world,
you may as well just learn to enjoy it.
Wodehouse enjoyed it to the end, dying at 93 after
writing about a book a year. In the "unfallen" world of
his fiction, as Evelyn Waugh admiringly called it, Bertie
Wooster and Jeeves, Lord Emsworth and his pigs,
Mr. Mulliner, Ukridge, Psmith, and dozens of others
inhabit a realm, vaguely Edwardian, that stands as an
eternal gentle rebuke to contemporary life. To the charge
that his world no longer existed, Wodehouse genially
turned the tables by pleading guilty: "I am a historical
novelist, like Sabatini."
In person, Wodehouse wasn't particularly funny or
witty, but shy, though all agreed that he was extremely
good-natured. His friendships, like his only marriage,
were durable and unruffled. He seemed incapable of making
enemies. Apart from writing, his delights were his dogs
and golf. Later in life, he loved televised soap operas.
He was widely read, but indefatigably shallow, sticking
to the amusing surfaces of things. If he ever had a deep
thought in his life, he kept it to himself.
McCrum offers an interesting surmise as to why
sexual themes never appear in Wodehouse's fiction. He
notes that a generation of English writers came of age in
the shadow of Oscar Wilde's sensational sodomy trial and
thinks Wodehouse drew the lesson that "intimacy could be
dangerous, even fatal." He was prudish by nature anyway,
and this extreme reaction would have been in character.
Relations between the sexes in his stories are chaste to
the point of absurdity.
Like most of his characters, Wodehouse was quite
harmless, rather dotty, as well as reclusive and utterly
apolitical. In fact his complete indifference to politics
nearly cost him his life. A warning to us all. Trotsky
could have told him: "You may not be interested in war,
but war is interested in you." And World War II turned
out to have a special interest in P.G. Wodehouse.
In 1940 Wodehouse and his wife were staying in
France (they had settled in New York) when the German
army arrived. He'd been paying no attention to the war
between Germany and his native England, and he didn't see
why it should concern him, so he'd made no effort to
flee.
The Germans interned him and soon, discovering that
he was a famous writer, asked him to do a few radio
interviews. He obligingly consented. What harm could
there be? Here his inability to make enemies became his
downfall.
The interviews were innocuous, but the Germans
figured their catch would have propaganda value if he
said he was being humanely treated, as he genially agreed
he was. Since this contradicted British propaganda about
the Nazis, it didn't go over well in England. Not at all.
A fury exploded in his native land. He was denounced
as a "traitor" in the newspapers and Parliament. There
were passionate demands for his execution, and an
official investigation of his conduct ensued. He was
eventually cleared of all charges, but the official
report was kept secret until long after his death in
1974.
Meanwhile, Wodehouse also had passionate defenders,
who not only loved his work but saw the horrible
absurdity of the accusations and threats against him. His
champions, fittingly, included George Orwell and Malcolm
Muggeridge, both of whom, of course, stood out in their
age for their resistance to the regnant political
hysteria. The atmosphere may be judged by a memorandum
about Wodehouse's case by Winston Churchill in late 1944:
"We would prefer not ever to hear from him again.... His
name stinks here, but he would not be sent to prison.
However, if there is no other resort, he should be sent
[from France] over here [to England] and if there is no
other charge against him, he can live secluded in some
place or go to hell as soon as there is a vacant
passage." Today such brutal contempt for pacific
neutrality is considered exemplary. Accursed were the
peacemakers! And P.G. Wodehouse was born to make peace.
Though Wodehouse escaped any legal punishment, the
cloud of having momentarily cooperated with his captors
remained over his subsequent career. Wodehouse himself
expressed contrition: "I made an ass of myself, and must
pay the penalty." Even the sympathetic liberal McCrum
thinks Wodehouse did something seriously wrong, and he
marvels sadly that his subject always remained puzzled by
the uproar. After the war, the Wodehouses moved to Long
Island with their many pets and never returned to England
again.
Today, 66 years after Wodehouse's internment, the
anti-Nazi hysteria has only partly abated, as witness the
frenzy over "Holocaust denial," the imprisonment of the
historian David Irving, and the never-ending extraditions
of various octogenarians on ex post facto charges. I have
to keep reminding myself that it's all a comedy to those
who think.
All of which just goes to show that in our age, even
the light touch may face an uphill fight. You joke at
your own risk. The Humor Police are out there, ever
vigilant. No matter how funny something is, it may face
the ruinous charge of being "offensive." No matter if
what offends one man leaves a hundred others convulsed
with laughter. What I'd like to know is, who gave the
killjoy this veto power over human fun?
The columns I have the most fun writing often
provoke angry mail. It's not always because certain
readers don't get my jokes; often they understand them
well enough, but they =disapprove= of them. They feel
=victimized= by them. I've tried to understand this, on
the principle that "nihil humanum a me alienum est," but
humorlessness is the one thing I've never been able to
bear for long. I just can't stand people who squinch
their noses and say, "I don't see anything funny about
that." Or "How can you joke about that?" Or "This is no
laughing matter." For me, =everything= is potentially a
laughing matter. Tom Wolfe has proved that.
Of course humor is sometimes deeply inappropriate.
That's usually when it's funniest, if you ask me. I've
known it to liven up some otherwise gloomy funerals, and
I've been to funerals, like that of my pal Phil
Nicolaides, where the deceased himself would have
welcomed a touch of mirth amid the blubbering. Without
his saying a word, Phil's facial expressions could bring
down the house. I was almost expecting him to pop his
eyes open and indicate comic surprise at all the fuss we
were making over him. When he didn't, I knew he was
really gone.
Tragedy is more prestigious than comedy, and I agree
that it's all right in its place. But taking nothing away
from Sophocles -- one of the best, in my book -- whenever
I see OEDIPUS REX, I can't help thinking what Wodehouse
might have done with material like that. He was at his
best when dealing with men in embarrassing situations,
and if learning you've killed your father and then gone
and married your own mother isn't embarrassing, what
would be? It perhaps calls for a lighter touch than I'm
afraid Sophocles had. Then again, Wodehouse tended to
steer away from themes like violence, incest, and
self-mutilation.
That's where I part company with Wodehouse. I like a
bit of rough stuff in my comedy. In my forthcoming novel
about Shakespeare, the historical material constrains me
to deal with sexual and other passions, and I see no
point in shrinking from frank language. For this I have
already been reproached in some quarters. But I think
nothing is to be gained by turning Shakespeare into a
milquetoast, or by strewing my pages with unsightly
dashes and asterisks. And though I may depict sin
unsparingly -- not only lust, but wrath, avarice,
gluttony, and, yes, even sloth -- I in no way condone it.
Like our heavenly Creator himself, I give my creations
free will, and I can assume no responsibility when they
abuse it. If they sometimes use coarse words, coarser
than I might use in their place, well, that's their
business.
Of course, that's fiction. I'm not retiring from
political commentary, but there too the comic spirit will
come in handy. Politics should be viewed as farce. All
right, a deadly farce at times -- I don't deny it -- but
still farce. A strangely goofy man just happens to be
president of the United States. And I think that history
will see him in that light, assuming history ever comes
to its senses. {{ After all, some pretty weird characters
have been Roman emperors too, if half of what Suetonius
tells us is true. }}
{{ I don't think the George W. Bush story could be
properly told in Latin. The Latin tongue dignifies
everything too much, if only because its slang now sounds
formal to us, like chiseled inscriptions on marble
monuments; and this story can't do without slang. }}
Every cause for alarm can also be cause for a laugh.
That's the way I look at it. When God became man, he also
joined the fun of being human.
Looking for Truth
(pages 5-6)
I never get over how far people will go to shun the
truth. Apart from personal life, it's a human trait you
run up against in religion, in politics, in history, and
many other areas, such as my own special field of
interest, Shakespeare studies. Shakespeare excites
conflicting pieties. Everyone who loves the Bard's work
knows he has put more words in our mouths than any other
author in the English language; his only rival is the
entire King James Bible, a translation of many books by
many men that draws on the work of many predecessors.
We quote the Bard helplessly. He has given us our
very household words, including the expression "household
words" (HENRY V). We owe him honor, almost as we owe
honor to our parents. Our souls are in his debt.
To people who feel no debt to him, trying to
establish his identity may appear an eccentric
preoccupation, and the "authorship question" mere idle
speculation. Such people are apt to feel the same way
about theology, which explores the most important
questions the human soul can deal with. "Theological" is
often used dismissively, to mean vain and empty. You'd
think people might be naturally curious about God,
heaven, and hell, but many aren't.
I just read a book about Jesus that vigorously and
intelligently affirmed his divinity, the Crucifixion, and
the Resurrection, but it hardly mentioned hell, except
when quoting the early creeds. It even suggested
generously that Judas Iscariot wasn't damned. I wanted to
ask the author, as gently as possible, "Just what do you
think the Savior was saving us from?" A rather basic
question, I think. Yet it's been a long time since I last
heard a sermon on hell. The Good News is that salvation
is now offered to us, not that damnation has been
abolished. The whole New Testament is rather emphatic
about that.
The Shakespeare debate is comparatively trivial, but
for all that it's important to some of us who appreciate
language as a divine gift. To whom do we owe these
wonderful words and the astounding fictions they
constitute? Why, when I read Falstaff and Iago, do I feel
I'm recognizing people I know, in their infinite
joviality and cunning malice? One is the very Soul of
Joy, the other the mortal Enemy of Joy. "Poison his
delights!" Everyone has known "honest Iago."
The debate also has its funny side. To put it
simply, Shakespeare keeps contradicting his own
biographers! His self-description in his sonnets is so
much at variance with the painstaking portrait the
academic scholars have assembled that they've never
reached a consensus on whether his sonnets are fact or
fiction! Yet even this doesn't cause them to suspect that
they may be writing books about the wrong guy. They
insist on letting sleeping dogmas lie, even if it means
the Bard himself is lying.
For example, the Bard describes himself as "lame"
(in Sonnet 38, and again in Sonnet 87). If this is a
fiction, it's a very odd one to introduce abruptly into
love poems. John Milton wrote a sonnet about his
blindness, for the simple reason that he'd actually gone
blind; nobody thinks =that's= a fiction. Edward de Vere,
Earl of Oxford, described himself as "a lame man" in
1595. Is this coincidence, or a telling parallel with
Milton, who also wrote sonnets about his dead wife, his
friend Cyriack Skinner, and religious warfare?
Again, the Bard keeps complaining about his age and
disgrace, his ruin, poverty, and approaching death. He is
apparently bisexual, and he worries about his "name,"
which he expects to be "buried" and "forgotten" -- at a
time when "Shakespeare" was being wildly praised. Isn't
that his real name? I've written lots about this --
nearly three books so far, as well as countless short
pieces. And I never cease marveling at the scholars'
determination to avoid basic questions.
The case for Oxford's authorship was made
persuasively by John Thomas Looney in 1920, and
additional confirming evidence has kept turning up ever
since. Yes, Looney's name has been much ridiculed, which
shows you the level at which some people debate. (In
fact, it rhymes with "boney," not with "Suni.") But
nobody has really answered his argument. So why do the
scholars stubbornly reject his conclusion to this day?
For the same reason. I suppose, that an article in
SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN, three years after Kitty Hawk,
insisted that the airplane was a "hoax" perpetrated by a
pair of "bicycle mechanics." By then Wilbur and Orville
Wright had made flights of up to a half hour, covering
24 miles, but no newspaper would send reporters or
photographers. Most people didn't know -- and didn't care
to believe -- that a momentous new era in human history
had arrived. They said it couldn't be done! So then,
naturally, they had to say it =hadn't= been done!
Likewise, the Shakespeare scholars resist evidence
showing that they've been barking up the wrong tree for
their entire careers. This isn't exactly a mysterious
motive. An amusing example comes to mind.
"I'd be =delighted= if it could be proved that the
Earl of Oxford wrote these plays," the late Professor
Samuel Schoenbaum, head of the Folger Shakespeare
Library, once told me. "=Sure= you would, Sam," I wanted
to say. "You'd get a =big= kick out of going from the
pinnacle of your profession to being its laughingstock."
But I didn't say it, for fear of losing the interview I
was requesting.
In that interview, the next day, Schoenbaum wasn't
quite such a good sport about the idea that Oxford was
the Bard. His life's work at stake, he kept insisting
icily that Oxford's claim was "undocumented." Well, yes.
That was the question: Are there deceptions in the
documents we have? Have they been misinterpreted? But
only an affidavit swearing that Oxford was the author
would satisfy the professor. After all, professors deal
in documented Fact. If you can't prove it, ignore it.
This was a rigid and old-fashioned position, being
steadily undermined by deconstruction and other
approaches that found formerly unsuspected fluidity, or
"ambiguity" and "instability," in old texts. A factor as
simple as a pen name can be enough to wreck all the
"methodology" of a Schoenbaum, which begins by taking
documents at face value. And this methodology has little
room for laughing at oneself.
As soon as you lie, you put pressure on yourself to
keep lying, while concealing or playing down anything
that contradicts you. The scholars aren't consciously
lying about who the Bard was, of course, but about
something subtler: their own certitude. They insist there
is no room for doubt, though the doubters have included
men of literary genius -- Walt Whitman, Henry James, Mark
Twain, John Galsworthy, Vladimir Nabokov -- who could
spot a fraud and who weren't up for tenure in an English
department.
A modern university is, or is at least very like, a
bureaucracy, where organization tends to trump
personality and individuality. The organization has a
mind of its own, a slow, bulky thing, reacting dully but
decisively against any very basic change, even when
change is warranted. If its rules are irrational, the
members are apt to say, "I only work here; I don't make
the rules." The literary bureaucracy, so to speak, still
resists the reform entailed by Looney's discovery of
Oxford.
A man who belongs to such an institution will
naturally find it hard to think disinterestedly, because
he has both material interests -- things as crude as
income or more abstract, like social status -- and moral
interests in it. His moral interests are things like
pride, belief in his own wisdom and virtue, faith that
the institution hasn't deceived him, and so on. He is
like a soldier who needs to feel that he can rely on the
chain of command without compromising himself; that
whatever he is ordered to do, however disagreeable, he
can do in good conscience.
The Folger Shakespeare Library is such an
institution -- a sort of Shakespeare Bureaucracy.
Schoenbaum saw himself, and was seen by others, as the
curator of an unshakable body of knowledge about the
Bard, defending it against presumptuous ignoramuses in
revolt against authority. In rejecting the institutional
knowledge and trying to discover the truth about the Bard
on their own, the Shakespeare heretics were refusing to
go through the proper channels. This was anarchy!
Similarly, the political powers that be, such as the
U.S. Supreme Court, have decided that just about anything
the U.S. Government does is in accordance with the U.S.
Constitution, no matter how remote from, or even opposed
to, the "original" understanding, and plain meaning, of
the Constitution. The whole legal system is constructed
to reinforce the official interpretation. So the
Constitution has become a subject of bureaucratized
"knowledge," like the Bard's identity, and you're wasting
your time if you try to insist that the government is
obviously exceeding its allotted constitutional powers,
just as I wasted my time trying to show Sam Schoenbaum,
may he rest in peace, the error of his ways.
Sociologists of knowledge speak of "the social
construction of reality," and I think I'm finally
beginning to understand what they mean. Real knowledge is
always personal, however much you depend on what other
people say. In the end, you have to find the truth for
yourself, even if it leaves you feeling all alone
sometimes. Some people can't accept anything as truth
unless it makes them feel they're in good company. But
the only really good company is Jesus. When you're with
him, why would you need anyone else?
NUGGETS
{{ EMPHASIS IS INDICATED BY THE PRESENCE OF "EQUALS"
SIGNS AROUND THE EMPHASIZED WORDS. }}
REISSUED: By Encounter Books, DARWINIAN FAIRYTALES, by
the late David Stove, a brilliant Australian philosopher.
An atheist, he had great respect for Darwin somehow, but
he thought Darwin's account of the origin of =our=
species was absurd, a priori: "a ridiculous slander on
human beings," as he put it. If you thrill to fearless
common sense and deadly wit, scornful of scientific
pretensions, this book is for you. (page 7)
SUGGESTION: Come December, the Bush administration could
recoup its flagging ratings, offer a warmer image, and
reach out to minorities with a televised holiday special,
KWANZAA WITH CONDOLEEZZA. (page 8)
THE CASE FOR UNCLE JOE: Would anarchy work? Well, it
always has; usually, anyway. The real question is why
people still believe in the State -- organized force. I
guess they think the State is necessary to "prevent
anarchy." Better Stalin than that, as Hobbes would say.
(page 10)
POOR RICHARD'S AFTERTHOUGHTS: A penny saved is a penny
that rapidly depreciates. (page 11)
CITOYEN LAVOISIER: Like many other scientists, the great
chemist Antoine Laurent Lavoisier went to the guillotine
during the French Revolution. The sentencing judge
explained, "The Revolution has no need of chemists."
Funny how little we hear of this, compared with the
endless reminders of the Church's cruel persecution of
Galileo, who, poor devil, was given a few months of house
arrest. (page 12)
Exclusive to electronic media:
YOU SAY YOU WANT A WHAT? "Leave your mind alone," James
Thurber wisely counseled, and we used to be able to rely
on VANITY FAIR to dish the dirt and leave our minds
alone. Now, alas, the mag is determined to raise our
consciousness about child sex abuse, war, and global
warming. Julia Roberts and George Clooney, on a recent
cover, called for a "new American revolution." It's come
to that.
SEQUEL: Last summer, you'll recall, the New York gutter
press had a week-long laff riot when Monsignor Eugene
Clark, of St. Patrick's Cathedral, was named as
co-respondent in his secretary's ugly divorce case. He
denied everything, but nobody cared. Well, it transpires
that the husband, under oath in court, retracted his
lies. I heard this through a priest friend who has
followed the case. Not a word about it in the press.
REPRINTED COLUMNS ("The Reactionary Utopian")
(pages 7-12)
* We the Sheep (March 7, 2006)
http://www.sobran.com/columns/2006/060307.shtml
* "Too Goyish" (March 9, 2006)
http://www.sobran.com/columns/2006/060309.shtml
* Battle Cries (March 14, 2006)
http://www.sobran.com/columns/2006/060314.shtml
* A Quagmire of Ideas (March 16, 2006)
http://www.sobran.com/columns/2006/060316.shtml
* Bush's Latest Idea (March 21, 2006)
http://www.sobran.com/columns/2006/060321.shtml
* Bush's Intelligence (March 28, 2006)
http://www.sobran.com/columns/2006/060328.shtml
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All articles are written by Joe Sobran.
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