The rumors began in the super heated war rooms of the networks, then spread like nuclear waste--say, oh, strontium 90 or thorium--in the drinking water, like anthrax powder in the halls of Congress and with the rapidity of Cynthia McKinney crying racism whenever she kicks a cop and runs away.
a count down began, with names as big as Jamie Colby and as small as poke salad tossing Randi Rhodes weighing in on the date, the actual D-Day of the old switcheroo, der Tag, the day of days, when it would begin, the day that Katie Couric--the anointed, the blessed, the counselor to the liberals, the defender of those who cant the news to the left, the leader of those who begin every sentence with a long leftist diatribe before they zing the small person in the lights with a knuckler, the grinning cheerleader of the progressive movement--would leave the early morning and ascend the Ziggurat to the elevated position of chief healer to the damned, turnbuckle for the main event, and hustle a failing falling and ailing Bob Schieffer off to dreamland.
There is a big chair--once held by that elderly, myth-writing, brochure producing, spoon bending ponce of a former newsman, noted for the unearthing of John Foster Dulles' cast off shirtwaists in a women's sauna bath and for the cobbling together of the early conspiracy theory which linked them to the kidnapping of the Lindberg baby, Honest Dan Blather-- which might soon be spinning counterclockwise in an even greater rate with a new, spiffier inhabitant, the effervescent and more believable, yet far more perky and even more of a successful old chestnut peddler, the irrepressible Katie.
Katie has come a long way in those many years of hearing that early alarm sound off. She has hemmed and hawed her way through many a tawdry and lackluster interview. She has tried to get blood from stones, shaken the broken Madonna, brooked no arguments, seen a lack of truth in more hackneyed politicos than can be counted with a mechanical adding machine used to calculate Sammy Sosa's batting average, Bill Clinton's strike out percentage or Madame Hillary's attempts to learn the seven suburbs of Binghamton.
Today's Katie has dredged mud around and nearly drowned Matt Lauer, taken swipes at Pappa Ratzi, gone to the mat time after time for the sainted Bill Clinton, chuckled over Cindy Sheehan's knavery, peppered the Governator with rank slurs about his family's past and has untiringly buttressed the failing reputation of Mr. Peanut when he butters up a murderous dictator.
Then, with the blinding glare reserved for the explosion of a Type IIa supernova or for the release of another Sharon Stone movie with the same plot as every other Sharon Stone movie, the story finally broke--Katie Couric was going upstairs to the evening news at the other network, she was going to replace Bob Schieffer and she was going to carry on in the finest fictional literary traditions that have made 60 Minutes what it is today--a terrific follow on to Playhouse 90, Thief or Take the Money and Run-- Woody allen's early fantasy masterpiece with the really fake beards and moustaches. Will Katie Ma wear one when she blathers really big lies?
But Katie has never been one to let her cartoonish liberal biases get in the way of her outright slanted reporting in the morning, so it appears that she's going to easily fill the large liberal shoes with the considerable lifts that Dancing Dan sported, or the high stepping Karioki clogs that Ramblin' Bob huffed and puffed around in, without a hitch or the need for painted outlines of feet on the studio carpets.
as Katie says, always look your best when you're peddling propaganda.
as Newsmax.com recently summed up some of her more unique and studied gaffes--though her more resolute followers and slavish devotees claim these quips alone show her moderate tendencies as they decry any and all attempts to paint her as a mindless progressive liberal--there does appear to some to be the slightest hint of a petulant attempt at chasing a liberal bent.
For instance, Katie retorted that Saddam had "hopefully" escaped to Syria, the Katester promoted a defense fund for the poor old andrea Yates, she cattily explained that the "Gipper was an airhead," a world renowned expert on international leadership, she cannily explained that Castro is, "considered one of the most charismatic leaders of the 20th century," and, concerned about the bias in talk radio, but never noticing a bit of a slant on television, she lashed out that the listeners, "…reflect the views of a very vocal minority, the extremists in this country…"
Hush little baby, don't you cry, mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.
So, Katie's on at night, the world's all right, the bias will flow, or was that the spice, but I guess that'll flow too, with her doing something big on 60 Minutes.
Now let's see, what could the Perkster do on 60 Minutes that'll blow the lid off the whole doggone right wing conspiracy, the Rush Limbaugh driven madhouse anti-immigration angst making Harry Reid maligning toe-tapping Ted Kennedy bashing ain't givin' no respect to Bill Clinton we don't like Harold Ickes and that Hillary's a fraud Tony Snow walking no border stoppin' blues boys blowin' red white and blue?
Rest assured that Katie will think of something real soon. She simply has to in order to make her bones with the big boys upstairs, with all the world-wide progressive channelers, who are just beginning to bring her into focus in the crystalline spheres, and with that disappearing audience at home in the hope of stopping the main stream media hemorrhages.
after all, she's brought her portable feast, it's moving day for the bonne bouche and the girl's all left.
Folks in the know say her favorite tune is From Rags to Riches, others swear it's Dirty Laundry. I say its Fly Me to the Moon--a nice liberal paradise.
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