Listening to that smarmy Bobby Jindal give that sniveling speech the other night after Obama's address, I thought of the man who I always think of when I hear about the evils of big government.
My friend Pat McGuire, who is treasurer of Will County (or as we call it in Chicago, Jolietera, etcetera).
Today he forwarded me an e-mail about a St. Patrick's Day parade that's coming up. The e-mail included his offhand mention to the organizer:
I wrote him to say I wouldn't be attending the parade—doesn't he know I play football with women on Saturdays?—and to ask what happened to the poor woman:
I felt halfway decent about the above, but the un-decent half had me rattled. I realized at four in the morning why: that woman turned on my messiah gene when she should have turned on my manager gene. That is, Stan Rutherford, who is my staffer who specializes in guiding taxpayers to financial counseling. I should have had Mary bring the woman to Stan, not to me.
A ain't sayin' Pat's a saint and neither is Pat.
But when Bobby Jindal talks about scaling back the government in times like these, it's Mary and Stan he's talking about, and that suicidal senior citizen.