Peggy Noonan's palpable hatred

toward President Bush is never more evident than her huge, fully illustrated article "Hope for America" (no bias here, folks--Obama owns "hope" like Palin owns "lipstick") in the week-end WSJ. After a boring and depressing trip through airport lines (Bush's fault) with the Statue of Liberty's sandals in a plastic bin, she mentions finally McCain's temper. But she never alludes to or outlines Obama's seething anger so obvious in his face in the debate Friday, anger building that McCain had shamed him into returning to Washington to do his job--be a Senator from that great state of Illinois where Chicago is king and goon. She gently fondles and caresses Obama like he was a pre-mature baby on life support, and maybe unconsciously that's what she sees. After all, she was a speech writer for Presidents Reagan and Bush the Father. Give her respect! She coined "kinder and gentler" and "thousand points of light," for Pete's Sake.

A few years ago, after she was no longer included among the favored, she began sounding like the girlfriend not selected to be the bridesmaid, then she graduated to the ex-wife who didn't get her settlement in the divorce, and now she sounds like the former mother-in-law of the guy who deserted his wife. But oh so careful, charming and oozy with her words.

What is anger, after all, if it isn't hanging out the Bernadine and Bill former 60s radicals who wanted to bring down the government; if it isn't listening to years of Rev. Wright smearing white folk while choosing to schmooze and live with them; playing footsie with Israel's enemies who want them bombed out of existence; if it isn't stepping on the necks of those black mentors who elevated him; if it isn't throwing old pals, including Tony Rezko, the mayor of Detroit and your own grandmother who raised you, under the bus. Peggy, wake up. That's hatred. Not flashes of temper or getting testy. Anger from the guy who gets impatient with idiocy and naivete is anger understood.

But you, Peggy? You're just the gal sitting back waiting to be asked to dance. Or maybe even invited to the dance. Good luck with the new book.