Moustache Ride
Looks like John Bolton will be our new UN ambassador; via Salon's War Room blog:

In the wake of the filibuster compromise reached Monday night, it now appears that John Bolton, President Bush's contentious pick for the United States' next ambassador to the United Nations, will finally get a vote in the Senate and be confirmed. That despite the fact that Sen. George Voinovich, R-Ohio, wrote to his colleagues in the Senate yesterday urging them to vote against Bolton's nomination. "I strongly feel that the importance of this nomination to our foreign policy requires us to set aside our partisan agenda and let our consciences and our shared commitment to our nation's best interests guide us," Voinovich wrote. "In these dangerous times, we cannot afford to put at risk our nation's ability to successfully wage and win the war on terror with a controversial and ineffective ambassador to the United Nations."

Calvin Trillan, The Nation's deadline poet has an advance peak at a typical day in the life of Ambassador Moustache

Displaying photos to provide a peek At how these rogues with wicked plans can sneak Their dirty bombs--each capable, no doubt, Of taking Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, out-- To secret spots in mobile weapons-vans, He said, "We must, right now, disrupt their plans. These dirty bombs require our deterrence. On that you have my personal assurance." A delegate then said, "I can't agree. This looks like sanitation work to me. We've previously analyzed that spot. It's photographs of garbage trucks you've got." John Bolton's face grew red, and then a shade That no one there had ever seen displayed. "You say they're garbage trucks!" he shouted. "That flunky from the CIA who flouted My orders mentioned garbage trucks as well, And now, by Jove, his life's a living hell: Yes, undercover's where he is today. He's posing as a beggar in Bombay. "You'll see the consequence obstruction yields. We'll pulverize your lands, then burn your fields. That's right, you turkeys: If you thwart my wishes We'll tear your hearts out, feed them to the fishes. And when we've put you through those sticky wickets, We'll make you pay for all your parking tickets." Enumerating punishments beaucoup, He then reached down and, taking off his shoe, Began to pound the table with its heel, Continuing with threats that seemed surreal, Plus noises--first a rumble, then a squeal, And then a bark that sounded like a seal. The UK delegate was heard to mutter, "Cor blimey, lads, I fear the man's a nutter." In time, while Bolton prophesied their doom, The delegates, in silence, left the room, And left him there, still saying he would slit Their throats and roast their organs on a spit. Outdoors, they still could hear the faint tattoo Of Bolton pounding loudly with his shoe.