I know, I know, I'm late. I should have recognized Abraham Lincoln's birthday more properly, and more respectfully, on Saturday, when it actually occurred. But for the life of me I couldn't think of anything new or clever to say.
Until now.
If you haven't already, read my last blog. Now, I want you to imagine the same baby-faced reporter who interrogated Secretary Rumsfeld, interviewing Abraham Lincoln in April of 1865. Imagine also him highlighting for the president the far more expensive "costs" of the Civil War. Finally, imagine him ending his presentation with the same question he asked of Donald Rumsfeld: "What responsibility do you bear for those costs?"
I don't know about you, but as long as we're imagining, I can imagine also, in that far more virile age, all 6'4'' of Abe Lincoln rising up very slowly from his chair with the full confidence of a strong and seasoned wrestler and rail splitter, and then, after glaring intently for just a moment at the diminuitive reporter seated before him, turning and striding purposefully out of the room, ignoring the little pipsqueak altogether.
Happy Birthday Mr. President!
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