Until very recently, David Petraeus held the coolest job in the world for control freaks—the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, which enabled him to snoop on, brainwash, torture, and kill anyone his hardened little heart desired.
That all recently came crashing down after he was revealed to be slippin’ ye olde Baloney Pony to his biographer Paula Broadwell, a woman for whom the word “plain” is perhaps too exotic.
You’d think that Petraeus could have snagged some of the sleekest, silkiest, smokin’est Spy Snatch this side of Moscow and Tel Aviv, but instead he chose a woman who looks vaguely like the albino love child of Barney the Dinosaur and Darryl Strawberry:
As far as can be determined, she wasn’t even rockin’ a decent set of taters on her chest:
Perhaps Petraeus is gay, or maybe he’s not packing much of a heat-seeking missile in his pants, but in this case the shame lies not in the fact that he had an affair, but that he chose to do it with a woman who rates only a “3” on her best days.