The minute he walked into the Oval Office, I knew he was trouble. I’d seen the type before. All the cowboy swagger in the world couldn’t hide that east coast preppie smirk – just another wisenheimer whose only passing acquaintance with “work” was having to haul his heinie down to the bank once a week to cash his allowance check.
Well, I can’t say I wasn’t curious about the kid. And a couple of rounds for the press boys at the local ginmill loosened a lot of tongues – just like four fingers of the good stuff always does.
The story was pretty much what I’d expected. Turns out the only way the mutt ever held down a job was when his daddy’s pals sunk a pile of simoleons into some fly-by-night business that couldn’t find oil in Texas – no joke.
The more I found out, the more obvious it was that the kid’s whole family, for all their high-falutin’ ways, had more skeletons in their closet than a grave-robber with amnesia. Yeah, there was plenty of dirt there – the kind that gets swept under the rug when you have enough doe-ray-me to buy yourself a top-of-the-line Bissell.
Anyways, the way I heard it, it didn’t take too long before this Bush kid starts hitting the bottle on a regular basis, along with finding a new use for that silver spoon that was danglin’ from his gums the day he was born. But eventually the kid starts smelling the draft, so Daddy Big Bucks calls in a couple of IOUs, and faster than you can down a sarsaparilla and pop some Sen-Sen, Junior’s got himself a cushy fly-boy job states-side while his buddies are bein’ shipped off to ‘Nam.
But here’s where the story gets interestin’. Turns out that years later, this Bush kid winds up as a duly-elected president – the duly-elected part being somewhat suspect, if you’re a stickler for the fine print – and he comes waltzin’ into the White House like he owns the joint.
The minute I set eyes on the gang he was gallivantin’ with, I knew the whole bunch was up to no good.
His sidekick, Big Dick Cheney, was the kinda guy who would shoot his best friend in the face, then send some doll-face out to talk to the coppers while he finished off the pitcher of highballs.
Then there was that stuck-up dame, Condi – a real sourpuss if ever I saw one, always actin’ like those pricey pumps at the end of her gams made her better than the rest of us workin’ stiffs.
And Rumsfeld – yeah, I’d grown up with kids like him back on the east side. Always trying to act the tough guy – ya know, kinda like the kids who beat him up for his pocket money every day of the week and twice on Sunday, just ‘cause they could spot a sissie a mile away. Turns out the guy’s into torture – as long as it’s some other poor schmuck on the hurtin’ end of the rubber hose. Thing is, you just know that every time this Rummy kid got told to strip down to his skivvies in gym class, you could hear him bawlin’ for his mama clean over to the next school district.
But the dead giveaway was the bunch of snot-noses the Bush kid thought were his pals – a collection of know-nuthin’ crumb-bums with names like Billy “The Kid” Kristol, Paulie “The Comb” Wolfowitz, Dickie “The Dickless” Perle.
You know the type – the kinda guys that talk big about how the other guy should do his bit for Uncle Sam, while the only action they ever seen was wavin’ goodbye to the dumb grunts down at the pier before headin’ over to some swank “eatery” to discuss the horrors of war over a plate of two-inch-thicks and a bottle of brandy.
So the Bush kid starts runnin’ the country, and before you know it, there are two buildings downtown that wind up being a hole in the ground while he’s parked in a classroom reading a kids’ picture book, lookin’ for all the world like when the Good Lord was handin’ out brains, he thought He said “trains”, and he missed his.
Before too long, he’s got us involved in some cockamamie war he can’t win, and whadda-you-know-joe, the hoodlums that just happen to be his best pals are rakin’ in the moolah like it’s goin’ outta style.
In the meanwhile, our fightin’ boys are tryin’ to dodge the bullets while drinking water that ain’t fit to spit in, courtesy of the same Big Dick’s former company that just happened to get moved to the front of the line when the taxpayers’ greenbacks got handed out by the fistful and nobody was botherin’ to count.
A hurricane hits New Orleans and while el presidente, fresh off one of those vacations he’s always on because you can’t expect a kid who grew up like he did to work more than eleven days a year, is out in the kitchen with Dinah, strumming on the ol’ banjo while people are dyin’ – which don’t make no neverminds by him, because they’re the type that he only ever seen at the country club when they was waitin’ tables and parking cars.
So we wind up with a country in debt up to its eyeballs, the G-men are spying on US while the back-room boys are swindlin’ the country outta billions, ya can’t get a job with a good ol’ US of A company unless you move to India, ya can’t buy your kid a train set for Christmas unless he’s immune to lead poisoning, the air ain’t fit to breathe, you can’t afford to fill up the Buick unless you’re the heir to a fortune – and on top of everything else, no one seems to have noticed that living in Capital City is the number one cause of being tetched in the brain, because nobody knows nuthin’, nobody sees nuthin’, and nobody remembers nuthin’.
And if you’re cooling your heels waitin’ for the press boys to drop a dime on the whole kit-‘n-caboodle, head on over to the soda shop and run a tab on the egg-creams, ‘cause you’re in for a long wait.
So now it’s time for this over-aged frat-boy to pack his kit-bag and head out on the next bus departing for points unknown, while an entire country rolls up its sleeves and yells, “Say, I’d like to learn this kid a lesson he’ll never forget!”
I wouldn’t give this Bush kid’s buddies more’en an ice-cube’s chance in hell to win another election, fair-and-square – and I’m talking about the fair-and-square we used to live by, back when a two-cent-plain went for two cents and Sunday’s sermon wasn’t about who to vote for.
But that’s just one dame’s opinion – for what it’s worth. And these days, it seems to be worth more ‘en that swamp land these no-good palookas are still hawkin’ on every street corner, too dumb to notice that this time around, nobody’s buyin’.
Posted in full with author's permission.
Originally posted at democraticunderground.com: http://journals.democraticunderground.com/NanceGreggs/342