We kind of hate to do this to our classmate and former colleague, a journalist and editor of real distinction. She's perhaps best known for her brave and highly readable exposé (with Jane Mayer, not '76 if you catch our drift) of the effort to smear Anita Hill and install a hate-addled reactionary on the Supreme Court. Now she's got her hands full trying to extricate the New York Times from the Internet iceberg.

Maybe not so much, if she has time to whip out the heartwarming story of something so unusual it will only be replicated about 41 million times this year: buying a puppy. What can you say about puppies? What difference does it make? They're f****in' puppies, for Chrissake. You can't go wrong, or rather Jill can't go wrong.

If truth be told, Jill probably deserves a pool, hot tub, and four-season cabana in Madison, Conn. as much as if not more than any of her classmates, and if she can parlay a $50 puppy into never having to go to, ugh, a public beach again, more power to her.

Editors' Note: An earlier version of this review incorrectly identified Jill Abramson's country house as located in Dutchess County, New York, due to the failure of Jill and Henry to ever invite us over for so much as a glass of Prosecco and a bag of Cheetos. 

Schlox News gasbag Dick Morris joins the elite group of "authors" who have attained the rarefied status of the unreadable hat trick.  For his third turn on the unreadable red carpet, he seems to have essayed children's literature.  And if you can't trust a guy who looks like he's prohibited from living within 1000 yards of a school to tell a morally uplifting story to your children, who can you trust?  Bill O'Reilly?

Who knows what's inside?  Frankly, we're scared to find out, especially after we were told that the working title was "This Little Piggy Goes to the Crystal City Ritz-Carlton."  

We'll just accept his premise that the best place to discover the greatness of America is that cesspool of greed, hypocrisy, and arrogance, Washington, D.C.  Where else but in that most cynical of cities could you expect to find a repellent bulls*** artist and whore toe sucker reinventing himself as a children's book writer?

As for us, we'll save our pennies for the inspiring story of another innocent who discovered the greatness of Washington in a $40 motel room out on New York Avenue: Dirty Dick's soulmate, Sen. David Vitter (R – Just Massages).

Well-dressed war criminal Condoleezza Rice returns to the ranks of the unreadable just one year after her initial appearance. That makes her quite the busy little beaver [With teeth to match – Ed.]

Maybe if she had been equally enterprising and determined when she was serving as Bush's lapdog, thousands of Americans might not be sleeping in the dust and thousands more might still have the use of all of their arms and legs. We won't mention the millions of Iraqis whose lives were shattered by her boss's splendid little war.

We suspect that this literary vessel contains jeroboams of the same old whine. She'll tell us that the Iraqi war was "worth it," because, well, because she says so and she's really smart.  At the same time, she'll piss and moan about how she was outmaneuvered at every turn by those mean old white guys, Cheney and Rumsfeld. What was poor Condi to do? It's not like she had the power to control all paper going to the President or demand the presence of all decisionmakers at a meeting of the National Security Council to review comprehensively the case for launching an unwinnable war of choice in Iraq. Oh, wait – as the President's National Security Adviser, she did.