Liddy, Not Libby

President George W. Bush
The White House
Washington, D. C.

Dear Mr. President:

I’m writing you regarding a matter of utmost urgency.

Ever since that weasel Libby blew the whistle on the Plame leak, my web site has been getting more hits than an Arab prisoner at Abu Ghraib. They keep mistaking me for him. Yesterday the damn server even crashed.

I don’t know how people are getting us confused. I’m G. Gordon Liddy, American patriot. He’s I. Lewis Libby, American stool pigeon. Our names couldn’t be more different.

Anyway, enough grousing on my part. The upside of all this is that my web site is getting so many hits that I can finally afford to buy that new Kevlar bulletproof vest I’ve been eyeing at Guns ‘N Ammo.

But the fact remains that I’m still annoyed that people are mistaking me for that canary Libby. And I have to say that I’m concerned for you and your administration. The last time a little songbird like that named John Dean started singing, he brought down a whole presidency.

What’s happened to people today, Mr. President? It used to be you could break the law and count on the perpetrators to keep their traps shut. As I always say, if you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.

In my day, loyalty to the boss came first. Just because a few folks break into an office building or leak the name of a CIA agent, that’s no reason to turn chicken and start talking.

Young people today, they can’t even spell coverup, much less execute one. You know what I’m talking about, right Mr. President? Ask a veteran like Dick Cheney and he’ll tell you. Even if you shoot a guy in the face, no point in taking the blame. Get the other guy to take the fall.

Thanks, Mr. President, for giving me a chance to blow off a little steam. I just don’t know what this country is coming to these days. All these young wusses can’t keep their traps shut for a second. I bet none of them can hold a flame to their hand or eat a rat or even do hard time. Just a bunch of liberal weenies, if you ask me.

I’d appreciate anything you could do to get the message out that I, G. Gordon Liddy, true American patriot, am not I. Scooter Libby, traitorous weakling. And if I could help you out in a "where’s Jimmy Hoffa?" kind of way, you know how to reach me.

Sincerely,

G. Gordon Liddy, Official American Hero

P. S. - What the hell kind of nickname is Scooter, anyway? That alone should be a crime.