A Scrapbook of My Day

Even the worst of us in this political mosh pit of the early 21st century can stop on occasion in grief and human sympathy and mourning, or just in self-preservation. Not Rush Limbaugh, and not Pat Robertson.

Olbermann referred to Robertson as “mister,” rather than “reverend,” because “it is laughable now to try to call him reverend.

“Sir, because of your tone-deafness and your delight in human misery and your dripping, self-satisfied, holier-than-thou senile crap, I’m likelier to believe now that you are the devil,” Olbermann told Robertson.

“Mr. Robertson, Mr. Limbaugh, your lives are not worth those of the lowest, meanest, poorest of those victims still lying under that rubble in Haiti tonight. You serve no good, you serve no God. You inspire only stupidity and hatred, and I would wish you to hell. But knowing how empty your souls must be for you to be able to say such things in a time of such pain, I suspect the vacant, purposeless lives you both live now are hell enough already.”