Washington -- Hollywood has no patent on contentious (vicious, even) breakups. DC can show "The Wood" a thing or two when it comes to bitter splits.
In DC all you have to do is pick any overly alphabetized agency (acronyms R us) and it will have a "partner" toward which it can cast aspersions, ramp it up to bitter enemy status, and engage in a smack down for the "marital" assets.
Yesterday it was FEMA and HSA (NOLA stood in for the neglected children). But today we're treated to a Spy v. Spy super-secret, triple threat über challenge, courtesy of the spooky, separated-at-birth fraternal twins (accidentally, secretly married in 1947), lovingly known as the CIA and the FBI.
Power plays galore, maneuvering to the max, and sub-rosa threats are all on display. We citizens get a REAL good, though totally unwanted, gander at how the big dogs operate in the confines of that junkyard called Washington.
This time the PentAgon(y) held off sending in troops to break up fights; those in the know denied there were any troops to be had, and DC lacks a coherent plan to extract an entire agency when it locks itself in the bathroom.
When all was said and done, the two titans of spookery were left to duke it out on their own, and some of the shenanigans were awe inspiring.
But we can't tell you anything because we're afraid of water boarding.
Well, OK. We'll tell you a bit, but remember: this is ALL on deep (throat) background.
The FBI put glue in the keyholes of the CIA (secret) rooms where the listening equipment is (rumored to be) kept.
The FBI laughed her (SOOO domestic, we'll designate the FBI as female) ass off when she heard him (WAAAY undomesticated, so we'll call the CIA male) phoning for a locksmith from his secret listening lounge. He was drunk. Again.
In retaliation, he sent his drinking buddies out to slash her tires. He simply smirked when he heard her phoning for a tow truck. That'll put a kink in her credit card.
Our own spies (What, you think they'll just TELL us this stuff?) have found out that the attorneys for the pair have begun hammering out a divorce agreement. Some of these things are way too predictable because we get it every day from The Poop (You do too read it. We saw you.)
She will get all the domestic spy stuff: grocery store tabs (he gets the liquor store receipts), department stores, etc. She claims he wouldn't know what to do with them anyway because he never does the shopping, always just leaves it to her; they'd have starved and gone naked were it not for HER.
He gets the gambling data, as well as gasoline statistics. When she found out he wanted this data, she told her attorney to agree to it, but in return demand that she get the cable and satellite viewing records. He'll be sorry about his choices, she's sure.
While he wants voting records and all big-ticket-item tracking data, she already has it all encrypted, and won't give it up without a kick in the groin.
She will get his headquarters; it is a widely circulated rumor that he had an affair with ChoicePros, the oh-so-sexy data banker. His little slut can just go solicit email addresses on the street for all she cares.
She was going to secure a restraining order against him on charges domestic abuse, but he had been clever enough to get one first -- his headquarters were next door to the local police precinct. Apparently, when the rumor of her charges circulated the PentAgon(y), the big brass told him about it before she could even get her shoes on. They just hated to see a guy put upon like that.
Neither party has mentioned, oddly enough, taking control of the prize possession -- phone records. We citizens are to be pardoned for suspecting that Big Tele, his mother-in-law, won't let go of them without a knockdown-drag-out, but we could be wrong.
His phone taps are better than hers, he has bragged openly. She should eat shit and die.