Camp David must have smelled heavenly yesterday, rich with the succulent scents of simmering gravy and fresh baked breads. The menu for Thanksgiving was fit for a king: all turkey and sweet potato souffle and pumpkin mousse trifle, whatever the hell that is. So American, this meal. Albeit with heavy French influences. And gazpacho. But whatever. It's Thanksgiving, you know? How wonderful it must have been for the President and his family, the fires burning in the hearth, the crunch of leaves during hikes in the warmer-than-normal Maryland woods. So very American. It's what we want from our leader - the comfort, the home, the soul nourished by the simple graces of good food prepared by servants and grounds made immaculate by the gardeners and a security detail that was grateful for the leftovers. Bliss.
And the President took time away from his loved ones to make phone calls to the troops who were having similar meals overseas, stationed in the Green Zone or in the field, many with actual turkeys and pies. How comforting it must have been to those in uniform, hearing the voice of their commander-in-chief, knowing that he cares, sitting at his desk in Camp David in a comfy cardigan, surrounded by a large photo of dog Barney about to get run over by an SUV, a painting of George Washington praying, and a model of a battleship, relaxed in his stuffed leather chair. Yes, such tidings from home.
Later that day, the Green Zone was attacked by mortars or rockets. At night at Camp David, laying in bed next to a Xanaxed-out Laura, Bush could listen to one of his daughters - he can never remember which one - getting roughly fucked by her fiance'. Pulling up his cozy down comforter, his favorite pillow under his head, the President might think for a moment about thanking God for such blessings. But why not give credit where credit is due? He drifts off, feeling like a good and powerful person, with words in his head like a mantra, "I am thankful for me, I am thankful for me."
