That Frothy Mix

Jingosphere habitués will (one hopes) remember a post that appeared in these pages back at Thanksgiving of last year, in which Your Humble and Ob't infested, albeit fleetingly, the nesting ground of that most rarefied of avian species, the Eastern American Stinking Oofy -- the bird the local Iroquois used to call "Farts-Through-Silk."

Acolyte Treepeony brings to our attention a piece written by Philly gadfly Will Bunch (reporter for the Philadelphia Daily News who blogs at Attytood) in the American Prospect. Bunch has investigated the private and public finances of Pennsylvania junior senator Rick Santorum, finding financial shenanigans that suggest that the Senate GOP "might want to reconsider making him its ethics czar."

Besides the delicious fact that Santorum's name will live on in ways he probably doesn't relish, the babyfaced little cocksucker meant squadoosh to me personally other than as simply yet another loathesome professional hypocrite, one of hundreds to choose from.

But now I find we're neighbors.

The supermarket, hardware store, big-box retailer and Starbucks from which Rick "Sometimes the Product of Anal Sex" Santorum charges his purchases back to his very own Political Action Committee are the very same places from which I charge my purchases back to my very own personal Visa card.

And yes, Santorum lives in Plutocrat Downs.

Actually, we have to be completely accurate. The places I photographed for that post last fall were on the north side of Route 7 west of Leesburg. Santorum's subdivision is Shenstone, on the south side, where the houses, while still hilariously grandiose and out of scale, are not quite as exuberantly over-the-top. To put it another way, a United States Senator, even one mired up to his bald, wizened little scrotum in the K Street Project, has to live on the wrong side of the tracks. The ones running him: They live on Bold Venture Drive.

Here's Santorum's house. Please note that this photograph is linked to from Bunch's blog. I didn't take it. I'm happy to cop to a whole lot of sins, but stalking a United States Senator -- that I won't go down for.

I run into the pious little polesmoker at Costco, all bets are off.