Carter’s compassion

A while back a concerned group managed to get the plight of a tiny snail-darter before the U.S. Supreme Court, and a brand new dam was nearly torn down – arguably one of the most ludicrous examples of misguided charity in U.S. history.


At least until Jimmy Carter started playing elder statesman, roaming the world championing an even more improbable cause  – The pain and suffering that terrorists endure when their victims defend themselves.


Last week, Carter met with leaders of Hamas, kissed and hugged the earth’s latest incarnation of Haman, and laid a wreath on Yasser Arafat’s grave – Another tired rerun of Carter’s futile quest to cast stature upon himself by lending it to thugs and despots.


It’s an old story. Like a 20-year-old smart-aleck kid who enters the adult world confident he can show his backward parents a thing or two about life, Jimmy and Rosalynn personified idealism and innocence on Inauguration Day, 1977 – Hansel and Gretel strolling down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House, chuck full of foreign policy ideas guaranteed to warm the heart of the toughest East German Stasi agent: Hug a Dictator! Arms for Puppies!


Then, four disastrous years later, while the Reagan administration was still sweeping daisy chains and John Lennon Imagine albums out of the West Wing, Carter sat at the peanut farm, inexplicably stunned that the Soviet Union had invaded Afghanistan, even though they had already exploited his ineffective tenure by gobbling up Africa and South America like a teenage boy at a smorgasbord.


To be fair, President Carter could be tough with tin-pot dictators – but only when those regimes blocked big-time thugs like the KGB and Fidel Castro from coming in and setting up bases for revolutionary expansion.


Like when he ditched our ally, the Shah of Iran, leaving a nice welcoming vacuum for the fanatical Islamic hardliners who immediately kidnapped our diplomats.


Now, decades later, Carter has the gall to position himself as sanctimonious judge to an administration locked in a desperate struggle with the monsters created by his incompetence.


It isn’t right, even if it did get him a Nobel Peace Prize.


So, this week, he’s at it again, playing the Mickey Rooney role in a garish Busby Berkeley remake that never ends: “Golly, Mr. Meshal, we're only kids now, but someday we're gonna be the guys that make ya laugh and cry and think that there's a little stardust left on life's dirty old pan. Oh, Bush don't understand: he'd put butterflies to work makin' rubber tires!”


Hey, Jimmy. Rosalynn called. They need you back at the peanut farm.

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