I'm on the fence about buying the new Bob Woodward book. On the one hand, its reportage should be sterling. On the other, it's Bob Woodward, and that turkey-headed shitbagger couldn't write crackling prose if Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, Ben Hecht, and Mark Leyner crawled inside his body for a Bacchanalian orgy and spawned a race of super scribes who each took turns possessing his typing fingers.