Gone, Bushes, Gone:
There’s one final myth about this President that the Rude Pundit would like to put to rest: George W. Bush is not a man you would want to have a beer with. No, not because if you saw him in a bar, you'd react like you had gone on the sex offender registry in Dallas and discovering that a guy who fucked babies in his basement was now living in the downstairs apartment. It's that, despite any feints at finding him charming, he is not, in his soul, a kind or decent person.
Check out this exchange from his interview with Larry King the other night:
KING: Did you read any of Obama's books?
G. BUSH: No.
KING: I want to get to something --
G. BUSH: Trying to figure out this line of questioning?
KING: Well, I have been told --
G. BUSH: My favorite color is blue and I love enchiladas.
Watching Bush beat up on a 400 year-old man for not getting to the point is like watching a teenager drown kittens for being cute. The Rude Pundit doesn't drink with irredeemable dickheads, with self-righteous balls of fuck who think their very existence demands your respect and attention, with privileged cockmongers who can't manage even a moment of self-awareness.
And he will not drink with crazed, mad sons of bitches who can't be reasoned with when they're half a fifth in the bag, the kind of angry drunk who'll fight you for stepping on his shoes, who'll show up at your house with a group of shithead drunk friends, kick your dog, try to finger your wife's asshole, break your lamps while falling into your houseplants, shit on your front yard, set your porch on fire trying to light your barbecue, puke in your fishtank, read your diary to your whole family, and then demand that you give him a bed so he can just sleep it off, but when you won't, he threatens to cut your kids' throats and jack off in the wounds. Fuck him. He can drink alone for all eternity.
His shitty little farewell speech was the pathetic capper, a generic "Kiss my ass, America" that he could barely act conscious enough to make interesting. To a room filled with stinking corpses, Bush went through a rote recitation of one or two things that might be called accomplishments, including bringing the dying back to life and that he stood on rubble after 9/11. Everything else was the obligatory attempt at justification, but, like an actor in a role he despises and for which he was never suited in the first place, he couldn't even manage to act like he believed what he was saying.
It's over. It's done. It is, yes, finally, history. Yet we can't just bury this presidency alive in the cold, cold ground and have a picnic on the earth above it, joyously toasting as it screams and claws and tries to get free before it inhales dirt, gags, vomits, and dies horribly, not knowing why it deserved such an awful fate. No, alas, no.
Because the reason I will unreasonably hate this man, these men, these women, as human beings, and not just for ideologies and actions, is because neither I nor most of you will live to see the day that all their hurt is healed.