In Brief: Because We Won't Have Him to Kick Around Much Longer, Part 6 (Final Press Conference Edition):
Watching and listening to President George W. Bush at yesterday's ultimate press conference was not unlike being in a room with a tweaking meth head who's trying to roll a cigarette, with the sudden shifts and jerks in movement, the delusions of grandeur, the inability to just shut the fuck up, and even after he pisses himself, he just won't stop talking, and then he comments on shit that he has absolutely no idea about, vacillating between shaky threats and half-witted jokes because his hole-filled brain can barely articulate a demi-thought, let alone a full thing that we might call a sentence, between not giving a shit what you have to say to taking everything you say as a deeply personal insult, like you just said that you fucked his mom in the ass and she shit on your dick, between hating your fucking guts and desperately craving your approval, while standing over an anorexic meth whore's corpse and denying that he had anything to do with her, that he was just pulling that knife he's holding out of her and he doesn't know how her intestines became a necklace for him, and, hey, by the way, he tells you, "Did you see how I dragged that dead whore into an alley so no one has to look at her?"

And you just sit there, staring, thinking that he doesn't know what the fuck he's saying, he doesn't know how the fuck to say it, and isn't it just time that he cleans up the tobacco he's dropped and shuts the fuck up?