Wimps, wussies and W.
SO THERE’S a smoking crater where Don Imus used to sit. That’s fine with those of us who never understood the appeal of his grizzled-codger shtick, which always sounded like Rooster Cogburn reading “The Turner Diaries” anyway. But if we’re going to administer a ritual flaying to every blowhard who channels the ugly American id, … Read more