Bush-Hating Is the Sport of Kings:
The Rude Pundit has a former friend, call him "Greg," who decided to fuck a 15 year-old when he was 35. Greg did not tell the Rude Pundit until a couple of years later, and then claimed he didn't fuck said under-age girl until she was 18. But the lie wasn't what changed things: it was the fact that Greg had fucked a 15 year-old girl. In other words, whatever qualities Greg might have had a friend, a likeable guy, a buddy, were overwhelmed by the fact of the fucking. And it became impossible to be friends with Greg because every time the Rude Pundit saw him, all the Rude Pundit could think was, "You fucked a child, you bastard." (Why didn't the Rude Pundit turn Greg over to the police? Because, happy fucking ending coming, Greg ended up marrying and having kids with said jailbait.)
The point here is not a moral lesson (although, c'mon, don't fuck the children). The point here is it doesn't matter how much someone can be a great guy or gal when you're sluggin' back the beers. The point is how much can you take. And we who hate President George W. Bush simply can't take it anymore. There's simply no way to say, "Well, he's an okay guy, except for all that lying and mass murder and thievery. But, shit, he treats me like his best bud."
With due respect to Molly Ivins, who writes that she can compartmentalize away all Bush's sins, more and more of us are really like Jonathan Chait of The New Republic, who is out and open and honest about hating the man, not just the policies. Bush is a smirking, over-privileged jerk off who would have Karl Rove fuck your mother and slice open your dog and dance with its entrails if you crossed him. He's one of those mean little sons of bitches who just loves to pretend to be tough when, at the first sign of real crisis (on Sept. 11, 2001) he was running scared instead of standing on the deck in a flight suit.
We who hate Bush glory in our hate - we wear it like it's our own skin. We love to hate him and want to see him fail, fall, and end up in a closet in the back of the White House, wearing flag boxers and a wife-beater shirt, a pile of high-end Bolivian blow at his feet, an unread copy of the Constitution rolled up to snort through, and eyes reddened with madness and coke rush. We want him to quiver and shake as he realizes, at last, he's in over his head, threatening to kill Antonin Scalia for throwing the election his way, just wanting to get back to sweet mama's saggy arms in Kennebunkport, and leave all this responsibility behind.