The mountain labored, and brought forth a mouse. It's a skinny little thing, not likely to frighten the most delicate milady. Robert Mueller is surely hard at work in his laboratory trying to breed a larger and more impressive creature.
The Clinton can is as full of worms as her harshest critics ever imagined it was, and now the worms are turning. Washington is agog, liberal and conservative alike, as the details of the spreading story of confusion, chicanery and crime in Hillary's campaign for president emerge from the dark and fetid places so abundant in the capital.
Fear and loathing can be great fun, but the Democrats are learning to their chagrin that resistance, estrangement and alienation can only take a party so far.
The owners of the National Football League finally came up with a playbook of their own. Beset by players who want to be political commentators who work from their knees, and by angry fans who only want to watch a football game without insult to the country they love, the owners consulted their playbook and think they can run out the clock.
The elites everywhere are having a hard time. When the peasants no longer salute, tug a forelock and obey with a whimper, even if with a snarl and a whine, you know you've lost your mojo.
Sometimes the lynch mob gets the guilty party, but that's not the way to run a railroad. We have laws, after all, even if some of them are subject to change. But due process is permanent.
Witch doctors are not necessarily more skilled than psychiatrists and psychologists, but they're sometimes harder on the pocketbook. A group of "mental-health professionals" have offered to resolve the Donald Trump "problem" for free. In the learned and precise professional language of their trade, they think he's "nuts."
Donald Trump promised in his barnstorming campaign for president, with bombast and bravado, that once elected he would tone everything down and be "presidential." He was elected and we learned that, candidate or president, the Donald doesn't do presidential.
Politics is the name of the game in Washington, and Washington can make a game of anything, even charity, compassion and Christian mercy.
Those ill winds blowing out of the Caribbean are blowing somebody good, or at least there's somebody who thinks they're good. There's always profit in somebody else's misery.
There's a lunatic in Asia credibly threatening the world with a hydrogen bomb. Congress can't pull itself together to do anything. But enough of that. We're all obsessed now with what a few tubby athletes think about the flag, the national anthem and the country others have shed blood and lives to defend and protect.
We've heard the words and music of this song before. The hoariest cliche in American politics, presented as accomplished fact by every wise head in academe and media after every wipe-out election, is that the losing party is finished. Kaput. Destroyed. Done for. Dead, as in the graveyard.
Pie in the sky is always a crowd-pleaser, which is why so many politicians are always putting it on the menu. The latest imaginary pie is health care by a single payer.
Summer's almost gone, but romance is still in the air over Pennsylvania Avenue. Nancy Pelosi's dancing the night away with the devil at the White House, and Chuck Schumer, the chaperone, is making himself right at home on Donald Trump's sofa. That's Mitch McConnell sitting off to the side by himself, trying to figure out whether to look chagrined or cheery. Or at least not as superfluous as he feels.
Hillary Clinton is the ultimate gift that keeps on giving. And giving. And giving.
Scenting blood, some of the Democrats dreaming of success in the midterm congressional elections are beginning to talk sense. The season of insult and abuse of the president is winding to a close, not because of regrets but the party grown-ups have concluded that making asses of themselves doesn't work.
If words were bullets, the crazy fat kid in Pyongyang would have been dead a long time ago, with his ample carcass on display now within a shrine of marble, plaster and tears. But under that goofy haircut there's a brain that is not so crazy at all.
It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the wind blowing past the graveyard of dead generals is making some clever, cynical people very rich.
A president's pardoning power is absolute, as every judge knows, and just as absolute is the certainty that every pardon will be met by a hail of hosannas and a howl of complaint and grievance from someone.
The daily newspaper was not so long ago the king of the mountain, only to become in many places a pale, wrinkled princeling with tired blood, run over by not-so-great entertainers and pipsqueak purveyors of the shallow and the silly -- and sometimes the fake -- on the internet. As the president might say, "sad."
