Bob's For Sobs

By Zamboni

The Transvaginal Bob McDonnell corruption trial just keeps getting more and more astonishing. Yesterday, Bob wanted to read aloud for the jury an endless, endless e-mail he wrote to his wife (and which we're sure his attorneys coached him to perform with just the right amount of chin-quivering and voice-quavering). Fortunately for all involved, Judge Spencer stopped him.

Still, it's been entered into the record, in all its seventh-grade glory. Read it only if you're studying to be a psychiatrist or if you just can't get enough of how willing the Transvaginal one is to humiliate himself in order to avoid heading to the hoosegow. (Or if "I want to be in love, not just watch movies about it" is your idea of literature. Sheesh, Bob needed a good editor.)

Much of the media focus has been on Bob's betrayal of Maureen, but why should anyone be surprised? This is a guy who has so little regard for women that he invaded their doctors' offices and butted into their medical decisions. The fact that he's a cad is hardly a shock.

A couple of questions, though, do pop into our minds:

FLOVA was such an abusive boss that a pair of high-priced consultants had to be brought in for months on end, to try to set things to rights. How much did we, the taxpayers of Virginia, pay for their services? And can Bob pay us back?

Bob said he enjoyed driving Jonnie Williams's Ferarri because he was "entitled to be normal." Normal people drive Ferarris?

If Bob and Maureen were so strapped for cash when they were younger, why did they keep having babies? Is that the Republican idea of personal responsibility?

Did Bob agree to the cash and the loans and the $20,000 shopping trip and the Ferrari and the Rolex watch and the cognac and the golf games and all of the rest of it because he was afraid of getting yelled at?

Bob laments in his endless, childish e-mail to Maureen that God "has not yet answered [his] prayers" about their marital woes. Gee, why not?

Well — maybe God is angry about the transvaginal probes. Ever think of that, Bob? We cats PURR.