Wer’re in trouble. The Three Stooges of the Apocalypse were sum moned to Washington to explain how a known al Qaeda-trained savage with murder on his mind and explosives in his underpants came a whisker’s breadth from bringing down a plane over Detroit.
And — nyuk, nyuk, nyuk — the doofuses and ski bunnies who are paid to keep you safe were left searching high and low for a morphine drip to ease the pain.
I hope you love this one as much as I do. This is the word-for-word testimony of Director of National Intelligence Daniel Blair last Wednesday, as he performed a pretty fair impression of Britney Spears:
“Duh. You know . . . ”
Blair was responding to a question by a member of the Senate Homeland Security Committee who asked why the crotch bomber was never interrogated. Rather, he was read his Miranda rights and allowed to lawyer up, shut up — and get tucked into bed. We may never know what secrets the terrorist wannabe might have spilled.
“Frankly,” Blair fumpfered, “we were thinking more of overseas people, and — duh! You know” — and at this point, the guy actually slapped himself in the forehead, like Curly.
“That’s what we will do now.”
Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.
The hearing, scary enough to keep children and small animals up at night, comes as authorities prepare for the trial of Khalid Sheik Mohammed right here in battle-scarred downtown Manhattan, where residents are facing years behind the barbed wire of an armed camp.
Can these government bozo brains keep us safe?
Julie Menin doesn’t think so. The chairwoman of Community Board 1, she’s pushing for the sheik’s trial to be held on nearby Governors Island, or somewhere else. A reasonable compromise. But one that Police Commissioner Ray Kelly has all but rejected.
“It will cost over $200 million a year to secure the neighborhood,” said Menin. “And what’s going to happen to business in the neighborhood?”
Excellent question. But one the Washington jokers seem little concerned with as they scramble to cover their naked behinds. National security is such a toxic mess, your grade-schooler could easily crack the government computer codes that are supposed to protect us.
The second Stooge is Michael Leiter, the ski bum who directs the National Counterterrorism Center. Leiter famously took off on a ski jaunt just hours after the crotch bomber was caught. And, yes, he still has a job.
He testified, shamefacedly, that Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab was able to slip onto a plane, even after his dad told authorities his boy was mixed up with terrorists, because some State Department genius spelled his name wrong. Government databases, unlike ordinary Google programs, don’t flag misspellings, he said. Happy schussing, Mr. Leiter!
The third Stooge to face Congress was Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano. And, no — she hasn’t been fired yet, either.
It was Napolitano who declared that the “system worked” after heroic passengers foiled the crotch bomber while clueless government bureaucrats drank Christmas eggnog. Napolitano last year refused to utter the term “terrorist.”
“I referred to ‘man-caused’ disasters,” Janet said. Say what??
“We want to move away from a politics of fear toward a policy of being prepared for all risks that can occur.”
This government is a man-caused disaster.
More than eight years after 9/11, there is not one adult present to protect us. The Stooges of the Apocalypse are running the show.
Bam needs to ‘reflect’ on Dems’ Mass. miss
If President Obama wants to find someone to blame for the game-changing loss of the late Ted Kennedy’s Massachusetts Senate seat to Republican Scott Brown, he ought to take a long look in the mirror.
Even as he took responsibility for Democrat Martha Coakley’s loss in Tuesday’s special election, Obama continued to blame the dramatic loss not on his disastrous health-care plan or his administration’s perceived coddling of terrorists. He pointed instead at his predecessor, George W. Bush.
Obama said the crushing defeat was the result of the policies of “the last eight years.” Other Dems blasted Bush by name. When will they get it?
The president refuses to see that voters soundly rejected ObamaCare and al QaedaCare. He is clinging to the fantasy that tweaking health legislation, not trashing it, is what’s needed.
It’s time to hope a little less — and listen a little more.
SLEAZY EDWARDS’ POOR BABY
THANK your lucky stars we’re not saddled with John Edwards.
Sadly, a little girl is stuck with this monster for life.
Edwards suddenly admitted last week that — oops! — he did, after all, father nearly 2-year-old Frances Quinn Hunter. The child was conceived with Rielle Hunter as Edwards ran for president in 2008, and his wife, Elizabeth, lay stricken with incurable cancer.
The sleazy snake-oil salesman from Carolina had this to say about the child whom his wife once charmingly referred to as “it”: “One day, when she understands, she will forgive me.” Right.
The timing of Edwards’ truth-telling is as slimy as his $400 haircuts. He was about to be revealed as having ordered a staffer to find a doctor willing to fake a paternity test, thereby getting papa Edwards off the hook. He also plotted to steal her dirty diaper, just to find out for sure. The man is pure scum.
His little girl is doomed to grow up knowing the truth about the man she’ll call Daddy. Poor child.
No winners in ‘board’ game
REVENGE is a dish best served up over Times Square.
YaVaughnie Wilkins thought she’d met her soul mate in Oracle President Charles Phillips. So why did it take nearly nine years for the ditz to figure out he was married?
YaVaughnie didn’t get mad. She rented embarrassing billboards near Times Square and other places to proclaim her devotion to the two-timer. He now faces the mother of all expensive divorces. And YaVaughnie faces self-inflicted celibacy. True love! It’s blind, dumb and demented.
Tiger rehab could be five-star ‘ho’-tel
SLEAZY EDWARDS’ POOR BABY
SO-CALLED “experts” in matters of the heart and other organs swear that giving up sex with random floozies is as hard as kicking heroin.
Tiger Woods is in a Mississippi chastity camp where perverts meet to beat a habit that many a man would pay extra to be afflicted with. But while Tiger’s co-sufferers work hard for their purity, the golfer is said to be enjoying maid service in a private villa, where he’s not required to mingle with like-minded sleazebags.
Just avoid the room service and massages, Tiger. You never know when some temptress will deliver a relapse. Just try telling your wife you were powerless to resist.