just for my personal edification, I am trying to determine whether Shooter is: a) honestly unable to perceive the contradiction, b) arguing to a conclusion, incurring contradictions when necessary and just hoping no one notices, or c) under the impression that he possesses some sophisticated system of thought in which contradicting oneself does not indicate a flaw in one’s argument, and that I am lacking in some perceptive skill.

It's "C."

Or rather, it's an amalgam of "B" and "C" but his perception of his own position is definitely "C." He cannot understand why we object to his mercurial style of discourse (your point "A" -- he sees the contradiction but doesn't understand why anyone can reasonably object, since the contradictory position is the one that leads to the neocon "truth"). He knows that he is "right" (Neoconservatism is essentially faith-based, as Greenwald has successfully argued on several occasions); therefore, his arguments are sound (your point "B"). Since he is "right" the liberals are "wrong" so therefore even when we succeed in outmaneuvering him, we have still lost (we are "lacking in some perceptive skill") because we cannot follow him to the subsequent position where his is suddenly "right" again.

Oh, I know. I just find it sort of fascinating. I realize it does not matter, but, just for my personal edification, I am trying to determine whether Shooter is: a) honestly unable to perceive the contradiction, b) arguing to a conclusion, incurring contradictions when necessary and just hoping no one notices, or c) under the impression that he possesses some sophisticated system of thought in which contradicting oneself does not indicate a flaw in one’s argument, and that I am lacking in some perceptive skill.

"Scooter" she yells up the stairs. "Sorry little man, I mean SHOOTER!" Shooter's wife can't help but giggle. She shouts upstairs to his bedroom to ask him if he wants to take abreak and go for a walk outside the house. "He's been making me call him that for a couple years now. It makes him feel tough I think. It's so cute. You should see what he looks like when I remember to call him that. It seems to make him feel extra tough. He's like a little boy with a cowboy hat on or something. It really is cute."

She heads up to see if he'll let her in the room. She knocks gently and says quietly "Shooter," and suppresses another giggle. "That just kills me," she whispers to me. Suddenly we hear what sounds like a heavy coffee mug slam against the door from inside.

"Leave me alone," Scooter yells, "I'm the last hope of the whole right wing empire. If I don't man this keyboard and answer every single comment these commie bastards make there won't be a world left for you or me to walk in!" He sounds serious.

"Oh Jesus. Not one of these moods. I need to go get his medication. Stay here and keep an eye on hin for me. Sometimes when he's like this he cuts himself. It's really bad. I'll be back in a flash," and she bounds down the stairs.

I peek through the keyhole and there he is. He's wearing an old stained white t-shirt, and his huge pot belly juts out over his belt like a giant muffintop. His hands shake furiously as he fumbles for a cigarrette. He looks at himself in the mirror. His head jerks back, eyes wide as he seems to scare himself. There's a huge angry red boil sticking out of his greasy forehead, and he reaches up with two fingers to squeeze it. It erupts in a thick yellow goo, spraying onto the mirror as it pops. He puts his head in his hands and begins to weep loudly. "Goddamn you all to hell," he whimpers. "God Damn you all." His whole body heaves with every sob.

He reaches over and puts a vhs tape into an old vcr. He sits cross-legged on the floor in front of a tv and leans forward like a man at prayer. Suddenly Sean Hannity's face appears. It looks like somebody copied straight from an old broadcast. Hannity is berating some older woman with a young child in her lap. Shooter bows 5 times in a row before picking up a yellow notepad. He reads to himself what is writen there.

"Sean's Rules of how to handle a stupid liberal. Rule one. Never answer a direct question. Change the subject by asking a different question. Rule two. Repeat the question over and over like it matters. Demand that the liberal answer the question or admit wrong." I strain to hear what he's saying but his voice trails off and he goes into a kind of mantra-like repetition of something I can't quite make out. It seems to buck him up though, and he goes over to his monitor and takes several deep breaths in quick repetition. He adjusts his autographed picture of Rush Limbaugh, leans forward to give it a quick kiss, and starts to type.

"Wow, is he always like this?" I ask his wife, who is back with a handful of pills.

"Usually," she answers. "But it's not as bad as it might look. He has a caretaker that's here on weekdays and she is able to keep him clean most of the time. I'll have to tell her about that new staph infection. He's had that since he was a little boy according to his mummy. That's what he calls his mom. Mummy. Like a little boy. I used to think it was cute but now it's just depressing. Anyway, we've got help most of the time. But they're worried that if he doesn't learn to take better care of himself that he might have to go in-patient."

We leave the pills on a tray next to the door. "Sweetie, please take your meds," she says gently through the closed door.

"I'll be out all night again."

The last thing I hear as we head out the door is what sounds like a dog moaning in the distance. The sound grows louder and crescendoes into a horrible wailing scream until we get to the end of the driveway and head back out into the real world.