Fear and loathing … and proctology
Last weekends foray into the nether regions of the presidents internals have produced a few pretty good jokes — and some interesting reflections from the pundits … poking [pun intended] fun at the Dubby and shuddering in disgust at Uncle Dick’s fleeting power as “temporary president” [sic.]
Dave Letterman quipped that now Dubby knows what it feels like to be invaded, and Leno, citing reports that upon waking up George went to play with his dogs and ride his bike, queried, “What is he? Twelve?”
Here are three very entertaining reads about that short event — briefly digging around in George’s colon left the nations prospects not in the hands of the Dingbat, but the Brute, and bubbled up a kind of dark angst and Cosmic pause … the kind of intellectual tension combined with primal fear that Hitchcock used to scare the bejesus out of us.
Jude
President Cheney Sickens Planet
Earth recoils as VP assumes role for two “unholy” hours.
Also: no WMD in Bush’s colon
Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist
Friday, July 27, 2007
Beginning at 7:16 a.m. last Saturday, and continuing for exactly two hours and five minutes, Vice President Dick Cheney assumed the role of President of the United States, while George W. Bush underwent a routine colonoscopy, a safe but risky-enough procedure that obliged the administration to invoke the rarely used 25th Amendment, which transfers all executive powers to the vice president when a sitting president is unable to perform the duties of his office.
While most Americans were completely unaware that the temporary transfer had taken place, the response from the collective body was nevertheless nearly instantaneous, as millions across the nation reported feeling some sort of unnerving wave of dread, something dark and ominous and stifling, like a collective shudder, a giant musty pillow jammed over the mouth of life itself, a great, low moan of deep, chthonic pain.
“What the hell is going on?” cried Jane Klowster of Oklahoma City, echoing the sentiments of millions as she called in to a local talk-radio program early Saturday morning, just after making a pot of coffee so bitter as to be undrinkable and noticing the flowers on her patio had suddenly wilted for no apparent reason, and also that her parakeet was dead.
“Did someone snuff out the sun or something? Why does the world feel so pale and deathly right now? I feel like my heart is being molested by a drunken hockey team made up of poisonous sea slugs and angry pinecones in the bowel of a rock. Wait, does that even make sense? I don’t care. That’s the feeling.”
Klowster was, apparently, far from alone.
“I can’t go to the bathroom. Everything’s stopped up, like someone poured rancid concrete into my intestines and stirred with Satan’s own swizzle stick while laying on a bed of nails made of spider legs, in the sun,” reported Tom Deavers to his baffled family doctor. “I also feel like punching a wall. And also crying.”
The stories were as shocking as they were, you know, titillating. “We were totally having wicked sex in the tailgate of my Subie,” said Brandon “Bran Flakes” Zander, 22, a surfer from Redondo Beach, sitting next to his “smokin’ hot” girlfriend, Amber, 19. “When all of a sudden, right in the middle of the good s–, boom, everything sorta went limp, you know? Like some dude yanked the plug from the love toaster, right? We just sorta look at each other like, WTF? We decided to fire up a spliff and wait it out.”
Doctors, scientists, healers, middle managers, astrologists and even auto mechanics nationwide were, at least initially, equally confounded by the bizarre outbreak of widespread malaise, which seemed to impact nearly every aspect of the animate and inanimate world, and even caused automobile clutches to suddenly seize, light bulbs to dim, shiny things to tarnish and electric components to flicker and spark and, often, spontaneously combust.
Finally, one scientist actually read a newspaper, and it all came clear in an instant.
“Two little words,” said Dr. Alan Lenner of the Phenomenology Research Institute in Bethesda, MD, glancing around nervously as if his next utterance would cause lightning to strike him dead. ‘President Cheney,’” he whispered. At that exact moment, a woman’s terrible scream could be heard in the distance, a pack of wolves howled, and once again that long, low moan reverberated throughout the land. No, seriously, it totally did.
What’s more, the virulent reaction to the temporary Cheney presidency — now referred to as “Dick Doom” by phenomenologists — wasn’t restricted to humans. Pet store owners reported a sudden, deafening outbreak of yelping, squealing, barking, hissing and so on.
“It was total cacophony,” exclaimed Becca DeWalt, assistant manager of Petapalooza in the Northtown Mall in Boulder, Colo. “Every creature that could make a noise or that could show some sort of reaction suddenly let loose and acted as though it had just caught on fire. Heck, I was standing right over there when, at exactly 7:16 a.m., at least 50 goldfish actually leapt out of the main tank to their deaths, like some sort of mass suicide. It was totally crazy.
“But then I heard about — should I really say this out loud? — President Cheney, and it all made sense.”
(Editor’s note: At the mention of the words “President Cheney,” that poor woman’s terrible scream could be heard again. Apparently, even writing the words in this very paragraph provokes this unholy sound. “President Cheney.” See? It’s uncanny).
Like a virus, like a bad rumor, like nuclear mushroom cloud spreading in all directions, feelings of Dick Doom quickly reached the rest of the planet. Reports flooded in from as far away as Singapore, Turkey, Latvia and Nanjing of strange animal mutations, mass faintings, violent fights breaking out in churches and small woodland creatures intentionally leaping into electrical fences, as a wave of dark energy swept over the land.
Nuclear warheads spontaneously armed. Guns spontaneously cocked. Every active soldier on the planet felt his mouth go dry in dread. Herds of gazelles and addaxes and even prides of lions across the African veldt paused in their activities, looked up and cocked their heads in nervous awareness, as if sensing the presence of a very large, reeking predator.
Shoes came untied. Cheese sweated. Clouds scowled. Scissors nicked. Children on playgrounds worldwide instantly halted all play and fell to the dirt and began to wail. Eager fetuses just entering the birth canal sensed something ominous and quickly retreated, apparently deciding to wait just one more day.
“I never ever in a million years thought I’d say this, but oh my God am I grateful that Bush got back into the president’s seat almost immediately,” sighed much of the nation, collectively, as it slammed another triple vodka and waited for the residual nausea to pass. “I mean, he’s by far the worst president the United States has ever known and he’s done more to set this nation back and embarrass us and create more terrorism and repress science and women and love and hope for all mankind everywhere. But oh my God, he’s still no Dick Cheney. That guy makes baby unicorns bleed.”
On a related note, after Camp David doctors successfully removed five apparently benign polyps from Bush’s colon, they were allegedly instructed by Defense Secretary Robert Gates to see if they could, at long last, find at least a trace of Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction “up in there” to help justify the Iraq conflict, a lost war that even the smallest human child now understands was one of the most malevolent and destructive political decisions in American history.
“We looked and looked. No WMD. No secret storage bunkers. Not even a vial of Nigerian plutonium,” sighed the doctors, who all seemed pretty much through with this terminally long joke. “And just in case you were wondering, no sign of Osama up there, either. We did find one of Jerry Falwell’s big gold rings. But that doesn’t really count. Wait, does it?”
Dick Cheney, busy cackling ominously deep in his bunker, was unavailable for comment.
Sifting through the ruins: The vast majority long for 2008
Alan Bisbort
Jul 26 2007
When George W. Bush went in for his colonoscopy on Saturday — insert joke about brains, head, ass here — Richard “Lon” Cheney was king for a day. He got to wear the crown, sit on the throne, bounce the beach ball with the globe on it up and down, phone down to the kitchen for pretzels and beer. More important than any other perk to Cheney was that he got what he always wanted — keys to the Oval Office. Though Cheney has been de facto president these past six years, until last Saturday he never actually got to sit in the hot seat.
Speaking of hot, I was sweating more than usual last Saturday, knowing this killer was within arm’s reach of the nuclear codes. Alas, days later, the Clown Prince is back on the throne and, unbelievably, I’m breathing easier. At least now I can concentrate on questions that matter, like: How much longer did you say these two guys will hold us hostage? How many more lives can they ruin before we’re released?
Bush and Cheney have already ruined my life. Every day I (still!) wake up with a sick feeling in my gut knowing that they’re running the show. You’d think a person would get accustomed, or inured, to the abuse, but I haven’t. Each day is a fresh new kick in the gut, a fresh new wave of nausea. I’m sure neo-cons, and their fellow travelers, must smile at admissions like this. I can picture them rubbing their hands and muttering, “Good, oh good … things are going exactly as we planned! We’ve ruined Bisbort’s life!”
I take small solace in knowing I am not alone in having my life ruined by Bush and Cheney. Indeed, for once in my life, I walk in step with the vast majority of Americans who have collectively figured out that these two guys are rotten to the core. And guess what? We figured this out with no help from the mainstream media. Indeed, the failure of our “free press” during these benighted years will ultimately be the biggest story of this era; it’s already the subject of a timely new book, When the Press Fails: Political Power and the New Media from Iraq to Katrina (Univ. of Chicago Press).
Be that as it may, the vast majority of us have come to loathe Bush and Cheney. And that’s the real legacy this pair will leave behind: hatred. They have made Americans hate again. We haven’t hated like this since Dick Nixon or LBJ. While Nixon seemed genuinely perplexed by the hatred he inspired — at least in his more reflective later years — Bush and Cheney seem to enjoy spreading the hate around. What other explanation is possible for the fact that, with a second term in irreparable tatters, they threaten to veto legislation that would provide health insurance to 3 million American children while also pushing for war with Iran? They are pissing on the leg of 75 percent of Americans and they look gleeful while doing it. Hell, Bush looks like he’s not had this much fun since prep school. This is not leadership. This is the behavior of sociopaths.
After a week’s escape to an island far away, I began to feel my “old” life returning to me. During my respite, I read no newspapers, tapped into no Internet sites, watched no television, heard no radio babble, learned nothing about whatever paltry opposition the Democrats in Congress have finally decided to mount, heard none of the Bush/Cheney lies. And I’ve been home for one day only to learn that (no surprise) I didn’t miss a damned thing.
Under Bush and Cheney, it’s Groundhog Day every day.
Or, as we used to sing at camp when I was a relatively innocent and apolitical boy: “Second verse / Same as the first / A little bit louder / A little bit worse.”
Not Of This Earth
Ed Naha
Jul 26 2007
The free world can breathe a sigh of relief, at last. Bush’s weekend colonoscopy was a success. Five non-cancerous polyps were removed from the Oval Orifice as well as something called a medulla oblongata. Said Bush Spokesman Tony Snow: “The president is in good health. There is no reason for alarm.”
The operative words there are “good health” and “alarm.” If we assume that Bush can now go back to business as usual there are plenty of reasons for alarm. As is his wont, Bush can return to governing this country in the manner of the extraterrestrial emissary from the science-fiction classic “To Serve Man.”
Bush immediately got his ass into high gear this week by insisting that the al-Qaeda we’re fighting in Iraq is the same al-Qaeda that hit us on 9/11. (Those polyps may have been benign but they weren’t too bright.) To those who argue that the recently-formed al-Qaeda in Iraq is purely an Iraqi phenomenon, Bush said: “That would be news to Osama bin Laden.”
I’m betting it wouldn’t.
After singling out al-Qaeda in Iraq as “Public Enemy Number One,” (I hope these terror guys don’t mind sharing titles.), he chided critics who see the war in Iraq as a distraction in the global war on terrorism. “The problem they have is with the facts,” Bush declared, before breaking into his Golden Oldie: “We will stay on the hunt. We will deny them safe haven. We will defeat them.”
His ass refused to comment.
Smart ass.
The dumb ass, meanwhile, mentioned “al-Qaeda” over one hundred times in less than a half-hour.
Bush began his al-Qaeda routine to rally the disbelieving American populace July 4th, when he said that many of the car bombings and killings in Iraq were being carried out by “the very same folks that attacked us on September the 11th. A major enemy in Iraq is the same enemy that dared attack the United States on the fateful day.”
Americans, by and large, responded by eating burgers.
By mid-month, Bush was dropping the words “al-Qaeda” more frequently than Gonzales dropped federal attorneys.
Yet, no one seemed to pay attention to Bush. In fact, every military expert not wearing a Hannity hickey said that Bush ought to have his head examined. (Hence, the proctologist.)
So, Skeletor Chertoff stepped into the fray and told the American people that his gut was warning him of a terrorist attack on American soil this summer! Terrorists seem to like attacking during the summer. It’s something about that old Jan and Dean song, “Dead Man’s Curve” and hiding bombs under Hawaiian shirts. When the public disregarded Chertoff’s gut the way Bush does the realities of Iraq, our President got around to doing what he does best…dismantling the government.
Chanting “it’s good to be the King” Bush Co. stated that the Justice Department won’t be allowed to pursue contempt charges from Congress against White House officials in the U.S. attorney firing case because Bush had invoked “executive privilege.”
Bush also issued an executive order defining what verboten “torture” means as opposed to nifty “enhanced interrogation.” Of course the executive order didn’t actually list any approved interrogation techniques. So, we are to assume the CIA can still use the tried and true “Yo mama’s so fat…” routine.
On “Meet the Press,” National Intelligence Director Mike McConnell offered his assessment of Bush’s new rules. “I would not want a U.S. citizen to go through the process. But it is not torture, and there would be no permanent damage to that citizen.”
If that citizen’s name was Superman.
On a roll, Bush also issued another executive order, zippily entitled “Blocking Property of Certain Persons Who Threaten Stabilization Efforts in Iraq.” In other words, like the hero of TV’s “The Burn Notice,” an American citizen could wake up one, sunny day and find all his financial assets frozen, his credit and debit cards worth zilch and no way to legally defend himself if the government thinks that the above-mentioned citizen directly or indirectly aided someone who has committed or “poses a significant risk of committing” violent acts “threatening the peace or stability of Iraq.” Or, if the citizen somehow undermined “efforts to promote economic reconstruction and political reform” in Iraq.
You know, like if you have an anti-war bumper sticker or something.
(On a related note, one major network is thinking of launching a fall show entitled “So, You Think You Can Goosestep.”)
Bush is having a grand old time of it, transforming the capitol dome into a cone of silence.
Last May, for instance, Senator Hillary Clinton queried the Pentagon, wanting to know if the U.S. had an exit strategy for Iraq. Two months later, as Bush’s approval ratings achieved “Gong Show” loser status, she got her reply via a bitch slap by Under Secretary of Defense and former Cheney incubus Eric Edelman who wrote: “Premature and public discussion of the withdrawal of U.S. forces from Iraq reinforces enemy propaganda that the United States will abandon its allies in Iraq, much as we are perceived to have done in Vietnam, Lebanon and Somalia.”
In other words, question der Bushki’s defense of der Homeland and you’re a regular Tokyo Rose or Hanoi Hannah or Keith Olbermann.
Edelman’s boss, Defense Secretary Robert Gates backpedaled from Edelman’s spit-take, saying, “congressional debate on Iraq has been constructive and appropriate.”
Back to Bush’s cone. Democratic Rep. Peter DeFazio of Oregon, a member of the Homeland Security Committee who usually has access to all classified material, decided to see what plans the White House had to keep our government operating after a terrorist attack. He request was denied.
“I just can’t believe they’re going to deny a member of Congress the right of reviewing how they plan to conduct the government of the United States after a significant terrorist attack,” DeFazio told Oregonian newspaper reporter Jeff Kosseff.
Homeland Security Committee staffers told DeFazio that his request was approved before it was quashed. Why? Bush spokesman Trey Bohn declared: “We do not comment through the press on the process that this access entails.”
DeFazio, fazed by this executive power play, is going to try again, although he admitted: “Maybe the people who think there’s a conspiracy out there are right.”
With the Iraq war going south, the working class economy stagnant and the country being regarded as a leper by most of the world, Bush, last week, showed just why he’s known (in his head) as “the Decider.”
At an invitation-only speech, Bush singled out a veteran sitting in a wheelchair in the crowd. The serviceman had lost both legs in Iraq. Beaming like Alfalfa after battering a ballad, Bush declared: “He’s a good man. We’re going to get him some new legs. And, if he hurries up, he can outrun me on the South Lawn of the White House.”
Sigh.
Uh, suppose this kid was fine with his old legs? Let’s suppose he’d grown attached to them over the years and was quite upset when they were blown off in a war that originated in the wet dreams of Chickenhawks?
Bush’s ass was saved last weekend by a proctologist.
Who’s going to save ours?
Oh, yeah. “To Serve Man” was a cookbook.
“So keep fightin’ for freedom and justice, beloveds, but don’t you forget to have fun doin’ it. Lord, let your laughter ring forth. Be outrageous, ridicule the fraidy-cats, rejoice in all the oddities that freedom can produce. And when you get through kickin’ ass and celebratin’ the sheer joy of a good fight, be sure to tell those who come after how much fun it was.”
~ Molly Ivins, 1944 - 2007
In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, this material is distributed without profit to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving the included information for research and educational purposes.
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