Recently, the NY Times did a profile of Secretary of State Rice’s likely return to the Stanford neighborhood (and the shit and heat she’ll likely face). Still and all, it was her home until history swept her into the worst fucking presidency ever.

Now, the ever-charming Rumsfeld will be flying west.

The bright side is, think about it, some fine California evening, perhaps warmed with a good meal of locally grown, seasonal delights and a glass or two of the vino, M. and I could be out for a stroll down the local streets. Boom, we spy a Condi or a Rummy also perambulating after fine dining. Think of the possibilities.

“Oops, how clumsy of me, sir. I wasn’t watching my feet.” Or, yours, as I “accidentally” tripped you to the curb.

“Ma’am, a good evening to you. I’d like to introduce myself. May I ask you a question? What the fuck were you thinking? Did George ever make you literally blow him?”

It couldn’t only get better if OJ started golfing at the course down the street. Oops, sorry OJ, you fuckwad. Guess your handicap is screwed unless there’s a penitentiary somewhere in Nevada with a greenskeeper.