We saw but could not bring ourselves to read Sullivan’s latest Sunday Times of London column. As always, the indefatigable SullyWatch cuts through the crap and notices that once said crap is removed, all you’ve got left is newspaper ink on your fingers:

Finally, after seven grafs of this, his stunning conclusion is that … he has no idea what this means. In better days, a pencil-chomping editor would have chewed him out and sent him back to his typewriter to write a real column, one that, you know, has an actual point other than to satisfy the minimum requirements of his contract.