That's the counteroffensive?
Boy, these guys could screw up a wet dream. Imagine this - Karl Rove has just hit you right square between the eyes with the Number Three Flat Shovel. Reeling from the pain, you reach for the nearest weapon you can find - AHA! Forged documents!
But suddenly, just as you're about to whip them out, the digital brownshirts expose your docs for all the world to see! The flat shovel comes down once more - nobody has been hit this hard since Mondale carried Minnesota. Momentarily, you blank out and your life flashes before your eyes. Unfortunately, it's only the Carter years.
Karl is done with the flat shovel. He's been rooting around the shed while you were blacked out and has found the oldest, meanest, rustiest pitchfork ever seen by human eyes. This pitchfork is so nasty, it was banned by the Transylvanian Bureau of Pitchforks and Torches. So you grab for your weapon of choice - the 12 gauge. But just as you're about to thumb the first round into it's semiautomatic maw, you discover that your guy sponsored legislation to have it banned.
But hey! You've got powerful friends in the publishing industry who will always help in a pich! From your prone position on the floor, you reach for your advance copy of The Family: The Real Story of the Bush Dynasty to block the blow from the Pitchfork of Mass Destruction. Unfortunately, the book falls apart like some government built Vehicle Assembly Building in a Florida rainstorm.
Abandoned by your friends, your preferred weapon of choice rendered politically incorrect, the truth ripped from you like so many barking caterpillars, you fall back on the one thing you've always relied upon - his wife's European sensibilities.
As the PMD slowly pokes it's way through your tie-dye, cracking your Michael Moore DVD and shredding the latest issue of the New Yorker, you can hear Karl grumbling under his breath, "Welcome to the Red part of the map. We own your asses here."