"I did not mean a personal attack on Ms. Fluke," writes a platoon of p.r. dandies, a division of pettifoggers and an army of bomb disposal experts for their client, the big fat idiot Rush Limbaugh, although my Frankenesque description of this hayseed of a Westbrook Pegler should in no way be construed as a personal attack on Mr. Limbaugh.
Because, you see, I was merely "illustrat[ing] the absurd with absurdity," as I have done for a number of years now, often hours a days, and more frequently than not, at least five days a week.
Thus, this morning should I also choose to evoke a Platonic Ideal of Justice for the absurd Mr. Limbaugh as one of him being brutally bitch-slapped and repeatedly gang-raped by a pissy throng of iron-pumping Santorums in some Florida hellhole of an underfunded prison, you might be justified in suspecting some trifle of animus on my part toward this sack of diseased human waste.
But you would be wrong, of course. And because the "of course-ness" of that correction practically screams its own affirmative defense, I would be offended in having to even point it out.
I might have chosen "the wrong words in my analogy of the situation" -- the situation being that this sociopathic cryptofascist deserves the grimmest of temporal karmas imaginable -- but for heaven's sake how anyone protective of the big fat idiot could think that I would have meant a personal attack on Mr. Limbaugh just goes to show you how politically correct and sensitively unmanly his affiliated party of cryptofascists has become.