Mark Morford: Iran, You Ran, Let's Bomb Iran-- When all else fails and you're becoming Nixon 2.0, why not just nuke someone, and smirk?

- By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist
Wednesday, April 19, 2006

It's just like playing blackjack in Vegas.

Invariably, sitting right next to you is some guy, eyes shifty and body twitchy and making weird sounds with his mouth and smelling vaguely of sawdust and horse manure and dead dreams, with a huge pile of chips he is quickly turning into a very small pile of chips.

He is suffering. He is playing terribly, grumbling, sneering at the dealer, talking to the cards like they were his personal slutty harem ("C'mon you dumb bitches, do me right," etc.), complaining to his very angry God who is apparently no longer coming through for him. He is getting desperate. His pile is diminishing. He is sweating, glancing around, wondering where all his drunk fraternity friends scurried off to.

Soon he is down to his last chips. He makes one final stab, but his final bet tanks. He is out, the pile is gone.