I Want Your Resignation On My Desk By 5 p.m.

Excuse me, Mr. Feith? You might not remember me. We haven’t talked in a while. I’m your boss.

I pay your salary with a portion of what I work 50-60 hours a week to earn. The man whose election was partially paid for by my tax dollars hired the man who hired you; nonetheless, since I sign your checks, I consider myself your supervisor.

Like everyone else who works for me, you got a certain amount of slack at first. Some projects you worked on seemed to go well for a while. And the events which you weathered at the start of your tenure inspired me to cut you and your fellow employees a little bit of a break.

But this last mistake … I’m sorry, I just can’t let it go.

Western media are quoting unnamed American law enforcement officials as saying the FBI investigation centers on whether a Pentagon analyst passed classified information about U.S. policy on Iran to a leading pro-Israeli lobbying group in Washington.

That group, the American Israeli Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC) allegedly passed the secret information to the Israeli government. The suspect has not been named, but the quoted officials say the analyst works for the office of Douglas J. Feith, the undersecretary of defense for policy at the Pentagon. Feith is an influential aide to U.S. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld.

A lot of people thought you should be fired after your Iraq presentation, which though well-received, turned out to be based entirely on falsehoods. The powerpoint was very pretty, but the results have left something to be desired. And this is just the final straw.

Now, don’t give me those “people above me approved” or “loyalty” arguments. Trust me, your superiors are getting similar notes from me in the coming weeks. But since you were directly responsible for this monumentally embarrassing and potentially damaging cock-up, you should be the first to go.

I’d like your resignation on my desk by the end of the day. Security will watch as you clean out your desk and then escort you from the building.

Don’t argue with me. That’s my house, asshole. I own it. And you don’t work in it anymore.

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