Scott McIsn’t is full of shit. Sharron Angle is full of shit. Jon Kyl is full of shit. John Boehner is full of shit. Sue Myrick is full of shit. I think I’m starting to see a pattern here. … and it looks like a pachyderm’s footprint.

While we’re speaking about shit, Texus Maximus appears to have stepped in some. It’s tough to keep knocking ’em out of the park when the press has finally benched the fat teenager slow-pitching the softballs and brought up the major leaguer with the rocket-propelled arm. Am I an owner? A rider? Christ, ask me something about cancer, can’t you?

Hell, I can’t remember what I was doing 15 minutes ago, much less in 2004, and nobody from The New York Times is asking me about it, something that tends to peg the Fear needle at redline. I immediately channel the late Richard Pryor berating a fanboy snapping pix of him during a standup. “What you taking my picture for? Who you gonna show it to?” he demanded.

Call me cynical, but I expect that RadioShack’s PR flacks will be the ones dodging the beanballs going forward. “Ms. Macur? Hello, I’m Fullo Schidt, Mr. Armstrong’s intern for Media Ax-Grinding and Agendas … how may I be of assistance?”