So the countdown begins on the last year in office of the cross-eyed, flash card-taught, flight suit-wearing little cowboy. Phillipe + Jorge’s hopes, as well as those of anyone of sound mind and body, are that we can usher this delusional, prevaricating warmonger and torture enthusiast onto Air Force One and back to the scrublands of Texas before he pulls a Slim Pickens on a nuke headed for Iran.
 
We would love to see the phony and pandering empty suit that is Mitt Romney, or the wild-eyed creationist, Mike Huckabee, who imagines — quite bizarrely — untold numbers of illegal Pakistani immigrants spilling over our borders, win the GOP nod.  Even Dennis Kucinich, with the right handling and mucho exposure for his hotter than sunburn wife, could beat these bozos. (Don’t even get us started with Rudy “The Skull” Giuliani, who has had a surfeit of dubious dealings.)
 
As you may know, P+J have thrown our not inconsiderable weight behind Barack Obama. Not just clean, bright, and articulate, he really represents a change from the frightening prospect of an ongoing Bush-Clinton-Bush-Clinton daisy chain whose lube is amply supplied by K Street lobbyists.
 
Meanwhile, your superior correspondents dedicate this column to the incomparable Molly Ivins, who gave more pricks to the little prick in the White House than a pin cushion. We mourn the passing of close personal friends, the Fabulous Moolah and Merv Griffin, among far too many others.
 
We wonder how the news media and Congressional Democrats continue to get rolled by Dubya and his twisted tribe of manipulators and sycophants, such as “Big Time” Cheney and “Queen Lotsateetha” Rice. Of course, the surge is working, so the torturers must have been right. Just ignore how 2007 was the deadliest year for US troops in Iraq since the 2003 invasion, with 899 of our finest men and women killed for a pack of lies and for Dubya’s Big Oil and Big Biz cronies. We send our kudos to Blackwater and Halliburton, America’s new face to the world, along with the CIA interrogators. Waterboard this!
 
Thanks, though, for wonderful events on the film scene, with the debut of David Bettencourt’s You Must Be This Tall, Cherry Arnold’s Buddy going to DVD, and the Ocean State providing backdrops for Dan In Real Life and even Underdog.
 
Wrapping up the year with the special events of the I-Wait and the “Eet’s not my yob!” snowstorm, we look forward to seeing how our august four-legged denizens of Halitosis Hall deal with a $150 million deficit for this fiscal year, and a $450 million one for next year, not to mention the ongoing Operation Dollar Bill.
 
Hey, buck up! We’ll all make it nonetheless, and revel in Little Rhody’s absurdity once again. Happy New Year

Law of exception
Boy, you have to love John “Pucky” Harwood, formerly the most powerful man in Little Rhody.
 
Although Pucky’s days as Speaker have passed, you can’t keep a good man down. So in offering legal representation to former Providence City Hall thug Frank Corrente — who is attempting to regain pension benefits stripped after his corruption conviction — Harwood pleaded that 26 years (of unsullied service) “out of twenty-nine is a good record.”
 
Who are Phillipe + Jorge to challenge the logic of such an esteemed mouthpiece?  It is inspired thinking, and certainly credible. We equate it to a person getting busted for bank robbery, and then explaining, “Hell, no, I never pulled a note job before, judge. The officer caught me the first time I ever tried it!”
 
But let us not unfairly give Harwood the entire credit. We recall a story shared by reliable Casa Diablo sources regarding the Operation Plunder Dome sting that yielded Corrente and his old boss, the mighty Buddy “Vincent A.” Cianci, some time away at the pleasure of the federal government.
 
Confronted in the mayor’s presence with still frames of the videotape showing Corrente slipping a cash-filled envelope into his jacket pocket, Frank yelped to Cianci, “Maybe I was taking the envelope out of my pocket!” To which the Bud-I — as only he could — screamed, “What do you think they’re going to do? Show the fucking tape BACKWARDS in court?”
 
It’s time to look for a job, Frank. You want fries with that?

So long, Sal
About 25 years ago, Casa Diablo was temporarily situated on Primrose Street, off Broadway, in Providence. This was before we moved to our more deluxe digs, which you can reach by traveling down the Hershey Highway, turning left at the Tuna Tunnel, past the Hair Aquarium, and over the Um Bridge.
 
Our next door neighbor on Primrose Street was Sal Barbato, who, while not necessarily a household name in the Biggest Little, was a neighborhood legend. Sal had a background in custodial services, and his passion for neatness did not stop when the work whistle blew. Sal regularly swept the L-shaped street on a regular basis, and kept his used brooms in his garage. They were lined up on a wall, reflecting years, literally, of keeping the street clean.
 
Sal passed away last week, and we send our condolences to his family. Thanks to Sal, Primrose Street lived up to its name, and that was no small accomplishment.

Enjoy it while you can
We’ll echo what the sportswriters have been saying for months: what a great time to be a sports fan in New England.
 
The Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics are all doing great things, and the capper for us here in the Biggest Little would be seeing the URI men’s basketball team continue their extraordinary season. Sorry, PC fans, P&J are Rhody Rams guys (although Phillipe, “Mr. All-American” as he’s known at Casa D., still holds a big torch for his alma mater, Uno Bruno).
 
But get ready for the shocker. With success comes resentment and loathing, and while the Red Sox are in no danger of turning into the Yankees anytime soon, we suspect that a not-insignificant counterbalance to Red Sox Nation is rising. And you can bet that plenty of Patriots-haters already want to see Brady and company get their buttocks spanked in the upcoming playoffs.
 
You can’t be both beloved underdogs and conquering champions, so the winds of public affection could definitely shift. You’ll never see the words “beloved” and “Bill Belichick” in the same sentence as long as he’s coaching. (Only a moron, though, could dislike Big Papi.) Enjoy the winning and prepare to receive the boo-birds. 

Send fresh tidings and Pulitzer-grade tips to p&j@thephoenix.com .