BREAKFAST WITH BOB

My buddy Paul and I are always playing voice mail tag. This week he's in San Francisco. I got a message from him yesterday telling me how happy he is, how great things are both personally and professionally, what a fun time he's having in SF, etc.

'This guy is really excited about something. Maybe he won the lottery,' I think to myself.

Two voice mails later I find out that he had breakfast with that socialist bastard, the mental [and physical] midget Robert Reich.

Savvy R.F.L. readers recall that Reich was Clinton's Secretary of Labor. In 2002 he ran for Governor of Massachusetts. He teaches. He lectures. He bores people. He fills people's minds with lies. Like this:

"The great conflict of the 21st century will not be between the West and terrorism. Terrorism is a tactic, not a belief. The true battle will be between modern civilization and anti-modernists; between those who believe in the primacy of the individual and those who believe that human beings owe their allegiance and identity to a higher authority; between those who give priority to life in this world and those who believe that human life is mere preparation for an existence beyond life; between those who believe in science, reason, and logic and those who believe that truth is revealed through Scripture and religious dogma. Terrorism will disrupt and destroy lives. But terrorism itself is not the greatest danger we face."

Now Bob is teaching at the University of California, Berkeley, that bastion of drug induced stupidity. For the past six months [or right about the time he got kicked out of Massachusetts] he's been frequenting a restaurant owned by one of Paul's friends.

Just the thought of having breakfast with Bob makes me salivate. Debating tax policy with Bob. ("No country has ever TAXED itself into prosperity, Bob.") Debating the war on terror with Bob. ("The terrorists want to kill YOU too, Bob.") Debating the Labor movement with Bob. ("If you made minimum wage, you'd resent paying those big membership dues, too, Bob.")

And that's all it would take. Unable to control his crazy Liberal emotions, Bob would throw the salt shaker at my head. Then, while frothing at the mouth and dropping the F-bomb, he'd flick his cold, uneaten eggs at me with his fork.