“You entitle some of your articles, “The Decline and Fall of George W. Bush.”
You are at a distance and I am not.
Before he screwed up royally, Bush used to occasionally wander around the White House (he doesn’t anymore) accompanied by sycophantic aides, and would give staffers here a twisted grin and fire off some grotesque malapropism.
His face has aged ten years, there is a haunted look in his eyes, his face is badly mottled and blotched (they use makeup on him for press conferences) and he is absolutely vicious with people, snarling at them and using language around women that even a DC pimp would hesitate mouthing.
Yes, he drinks himself into a mumbling stupor. One of the current SS White House Detail personnel told his sister, who told a communicant of mine, that Bush goes to Crawford as often as he can to get plastered. Actually, he never was on the wagon at all and neither is he a born-again Christian. His alleged victory over the bottle and his miraculous discovery of Jesus in the tool shed are Karl Rove fabrications, designed to enhance the image of a bitter, destructive, alcoholic and ageing closet queen with delusions of grandeur and reference.
One of my co-workers, a professional and not an ideologue, stopped by my office this morning, filled with portents of doom and gloom. There was a bright moment when he was discussing Bush’s growing fears that someone will shoot him or blow up his aircraft with a rocket.
My visitor said, entirely in jest, that he wondered what would happen if some sociopathic and suicidal reporter set off an M-80 firecracker at a Presidential televised press conference.
My God, the images that came to mind had both of us helpless with laughter.
First off, there would be a bright flash, followed by a deafening roar.
Then the President would shriek with fear, fall onto the stage and lose bladder and bowel control while panic reigned. The Secret Service detail would fall all over him, and regret it when their suits were stained, there would be a violent and immediate exit by terrified press people and the weaker would be trampled by the stronger.
The room would smell like a French public lavatory in July and the aisles and exits littered with broken glasses, smashed cameras and tape recorders with a few shoes and false teeth embedded in the mess.
While the President was being hosed off and given clean clothes, the news, badly garbled, would sweep the networks and, as usual, mindless confusion would reign supreme for days.
Champaign corks would be popping in presidential palaces and foreign ministries around the world and the muddle-headed mediocrities that make up our media would babble endlessly, filling the papers and the television with the most awful nonsense.
Bush would be having a nervous breakdown in his steel and concrete White House bunker while across town, the Vice President, in his bunker, under the impression that the Emperor was dead, would be running around, planning his coronation and his speeches to the American people establishing Martial Law everywhere, when God would intervene and he would turn a light blue, clutch at his fat chest and topple permanently to the ground.
This would leave Dennis Hastert, who is two sandwiches and a thermos of tea short of a picnic, pricing a new summer home on Lake Geneva and leaving wet spots on his office rug.
Tony Blair would go into permanent mourning while Vladimir Putin declared a national holiday in Russia.
Given the pisspoor record of our law enforcement agencies, it would take at least two months before someone figured out that it was a firecracker and not the late bin Laden firing a flintlock blunderbuss filled with mini-bagels and by then, we would be at war with China, Canada, Mexico and Gabon and New York City and Bad Seepage, Ohio would be radioactive.
The thrower of the firecracker would naturally have plenty of time to flee the White House and go into hiding in Venezuela where he would become an instant hero, marry Hugo Chavez’ niece and end up running the state oil industry.
All of this speculation caused great merriment between myself and my visitor but should we not look for the truth in the jest?”
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