See?  Didn’t even mention it.*

Me: “I bet you think we’re losing the war, don’t you?” Hole: Me: “Fucking hole.”

Or not. From the Washington Post: U.S. warplanes backed Sunni Arab tribal fighters on Tuesday in what tribal leaders called an unprecedented Sunni-led offensive to drive out Abu Musab Zarqawi’s forces. Three days of ongoing fighting in towns near the Syrian border killed at least 61 people, at least 56 of them Tuesday, said Dr. Ali Rawi, emergency-room director at the hospital in the largest city near the fighting, Qaim,

Today’s CINDY! diary at Daily Kos offers further, heartwrenching evidence that Ms Sheehan is simply a grieving Mom who just wants to chat with the President: While George golfed yesterday, the worst hurricane ever struck New Orleans; oil went up to over 68.00/barrel; and an American soldier was killed in the charade and cataclysmic occupation of Iraq. The soldier’s family doesn’t even know what’s going to hit them yet. The

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, Billy—for me to become the righteous Spark the universe chose to ignite the flame of Truth, you know?  I mean, that I’ve become the Rosa Parks of the Peace Movement—me, a simple Mom who lost her son and wasn’t looking for any media attention—it’s just crazy!  Not to mention a bit embarrassing, truth be told. In fact, I plan to talk at some

Reacting to McQ’s argument that deficiencies in the MSM’s Iraq coverage are the result of editorial framing decisions that create an almost incidental bias by omitting important contextual markers that would worry their sensationalist narrative, Tall Dave suggests that something more intentional may be at work here: I’m not saying the media hates America or supports the terrorists or anything silly like that. Far from it. As in Vietnam, the

Sunday night’s Pundit Review Radio again featured Michael Yon, this time for a focused look at what is happening on the ground in Iraq.  Yon also reacts to hearing a clip of Cindy Sheehan for the first time.  Worth checking out.

Clear and warm this evening, low 70s.  With very little breeze to speak of, the air in my backyard is pregnant with the smells of Carne Asada and Bistec Ranchero, both of which waft over from my neighbor’s woodchip grill.  Having just finished taping large Xs over each of our storm windows, I lean back in a deck chair, light the citronella candle, and pour myself a pint of Guinness.