Several months ago, a little bird told me Scott McClellan was writing a book about his time at the White House. I thought, hey, no problem, every ex-staffer writes a book about the what it’s like “inside the presidency” or some shit like that. Hell, ex-speechwriter David Frum wrote one already. And his was exactly the kind of book I like to see my old employees churn out—it even had “War on Terror” in the title!

But this McClellan kid—who, by the way, was working in the Texas State Legislature sucking dick for votes when I discovered him—decides to go all Barbara Walters on us and write a “tell-all,”  which would be fine if he was a Hollywood queer writing about who he slept with and what Jay Leno is like behind the scenes, but this is politics, Scotty. You don’t turn around and fuck with the people who have been giving you orders for the past several years. We’re not talking about a career-killing decision here. We’re talking an existence-killing decision.

You think you can get away with telling everyone George was blacking out too much to know whether he did coke? Sure, the folks at Daily Kos do worse every day, but I don’t have their social security numbers sitting on my desk.

We’re watching you, Scotty boy. And I don’t mean that as a threat. I’m just saying, there’s nowhere you can run where I can’t find you.