This isn’t a Teflon administration. It’s Kevlar. We’ve seen Bushco take direct hits and drum on like the Energizer Bunny. This cabal is Timex, its lies blatantly unmasked, guns smoking, hands bloodied, but if it has a heart, its telltale beat is not pounding, just ticking.

As I fantasize of a 2009 comeuppance, congress submitting our ex-leaders before the International Criminal Court to face the consequences of their audacious crimes, I cannot help but question whether and how justice can be served. Where is the authority to bring these men to justice? Who and whose army is going to wrench Bush and co from their above-the-law protectors?

Even if the weight of national and international law enforcement can pull rank over the intelligence community and its private muscle, can we prevent a Ken Lay possum maneuver from stopping an investigation in its tracks? Who will be able to avert a freak accident where Bush and Cheney and the whole lot will be theatrically killed off, in reality to party on in Paraguay until maintaining a facade no longer matters?

While I worry about the loophole of a remote Patagonian haven for post-Nazi war criminals, if the media is collaborating, is actual exile even necessary? Heart attack victim Ken Lay could even now be living it up in Aspen and Cannes among jet-setters who enjoy the irony. If no news agency reports it, would we know? Even as we don’t hear it, we know the tree falls. Had Elvis been facing a multi-billion dollar lawsuit, or a war crimes trial, I might imagine an ignoble death on the toilet and an afterlife in Vegas drive-throughs would be a small price to pay.

If the Neocons are dethroned in November, and may I say I consider the prospect highly unlikely, they seem awfully powerful enough to carry on scot-free. America can’t even get Karl Rove to obey a subpoena. We can’t even get an independent inquiry into Bush’s pre-political driving records. The Carlyle Group will certainly be able to afford an expert to confirm that the DNA of a chimpanzee found slumped over the presidential excrement-incinerator porta-potty matches that of our dear-departed dope-in-chief. We’ll believe it, even as a simian look-alike paddles his mountain bike around vast East Coast and Texan estates.

Justice denied, I’ll not believe it, injustice will prevail, I doubt very much there will even be the illusion.