What God Really Told Bush
Apparently, it wasn't just "invade Iraq and Afghanistan in my name." A
special report
By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist

Wednesday, October 12, 2005


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Scene: White House private residence, night, not long ago. President
Bush present in his most favoritest guns 'n' bunnies PJs. Laura asleep,
knocked out by a combination of too much Good Housekeeping and
excessive hair-spray fumes. Suddenly, a burst of black smoke. A deep,
resonant voice speaks:

"Psst! George! God here, taking a break from supervising the well-being
of eight billion troubled souls along with infinite galaxies of
unimaginable vastness to speak with you directly one more time because,
well, you're special, aren't you, George? Yes you are! Yes you are! OK,
stop giggling. I have more commands. Get off the damn hobbyhorse,
George, and get a pen and a notepad. No, not a crayon. I don't care if
blue is your favori-- George! Get a pen! OK? Good. Here we go:

"As you know, I'm not quite what everyone thinks. I am not all
benevolence and love and light. In fact, I have a downright dark side,
mean and nasty and cunning, and I want you, George, to continue to be
my special right-hand man. My special little guy. In fact, you shall
help enact my wrath, Dubya. Doesn't that sound fun?

"There are three things I love, George: war, revenge, suffering. Oh,
and smiting the heathens. OK, four things. And kickboxing. Five things.
There are five things I love, Dubya. You with me? And you and your
demon monkeys are enacting the first four admirably, George. Don't be
shy, go ahead and tell those Palestinian officials you were commanded
by God to "restore peace" in the Middle East by bombing nearly
defenseless, pip-squeak Iraq and Afghanistan to smithereens. They love
that stuff.

"But let's put the delicious war stuff aside for a moment. I need to
round out my oeuvre. Here's the plan: I'm gonna wreak some major havoc
on one of your poorest, most racially mixed, underfunded cities by
hurling a massive hurricane at them, flooding the place and killing
hundreds of poor people you don't even know exist because you thought
they all lived somewhere in Africa. It's all right, the biggest city,
New Orleans, will be full of Kerry-loving Democrats. Yeah, I thought
you'd like that.

"Here's where you come in, George: When those rains come, I want you to
sit back for a few days, stay in the hammock in Crawford, have a
lemonade, OK? Let those dead bodies float around New Orleans like it
was some remote village in Nigeria. Then look completely baffled when
everyone blames you for your administration's miserable response.
You'll take some flak for it, but did I ever say serving me would be
easy? Besides, people need to know I'm still here, still angry, getting
angrier. Don't worry, I'll make it up to you. How does eternal
damnati-- er, blessed sainthood sound? Good.

"OK, moving on. I have a secret, George. Here it is: I hate this
me-forsaken planet. All this so-called beauty, nature and the magic of
science and the poetry of cells -- you know what Earth is to me? High
maintenance, that's what. A massive pain in my hallowed butt. Growing
all that food, blowing the wind, churning the oceans -- it's
exhausting. Plus my energy bills are skyrocketing. Heating India and
Turkey cost me 87 trillion last month alone. What am I, made of money?
Well yes, of course I am. But no matter. I'm sick of it.

"Here's the plan, George: I want you to despoil, OK? Rivers and air and
lakes, wildlife preserves and pristine forests and salmon runs and bird
sanctuaries. Screw 'em, Dubya. Screw 'em all. I want you to be the
worst environmental president in 50 years, OK? Hell, make it 100. I
want you to roll back more environmental protections and do more damage
to the place in eight months than my bitch Ronnie Reagan did in eight
years. Rape the joint clean. Sell it all off to your cronies in big
industry and help me hasten Armageddon. Deal? Here's the truth, Dubya:
Earth's a giant liver-flavored Kong toy and you're a rabid terrier.
Now, go get it, boy!

"Damn kids these days. Who needs so many? Why not send tens of
thousands of them off to fight your two brutal, unwinnable wars? Why
not Vietnam 2.0? Hell yes! Because if there's one thing I love more
than useless wars, George, it's thousands of mutilated soldiers coming
home in body bags, all draped in the pretty American flag. Twenty-one
gun salute! For God and country! Righteous.

"Speaking of uppity kids, I know my own brat Jesus came down here once
and mumbled some flower-child gibberish about turning the other cheek
and not killing anyone and doing unto others as you would have them do
unto you and yadda-yadda-yadda. That's what happens when you give the
kids the car keys and an unsupervised weekend, am I right? It's all
complete bupkes, but I don't have to tell you that, now do I?

"So here's what I want you to do, George. I want your demoralized
military shlubs to capture as many swarthy types as possible, whenever
they raid an Iraqi home or school or Afghan farm, and throw them all
straight into a military prison and let 'em rot and wait for months,
years for a fair hearing. Got it?

"Strip them naked! Stick electrodes on their genitals! Smear menstrual
blood on their faces! Beat 'em senseless! I don't care if they're
innocent. I sayeth unto you, innocence is overrated. Rape the boys,
too. Then cover it all up and blame it all on a poor, dim-witted female
soldier from Kentucky and shove her into prison for three years while
all the honchos who sanctioned the torture (hi, Rummy!) merely smirk
and walk away. God sayeth unto you all, rock on!

"I know, everyone says I'm made of pure love. Ha. Truth is, I'm made of
aluminum chloride and coal cinders and something I'm not quite sure
about but I think might be MSG. Oh yeah, and money. Fifties, mostly.

"I gotta run, George. But rest assured, I'll be back soon, with more
ideas. But there's one more thing you need to know, one thing you
absolutely cannot forget. Remember our Super Triple Secret, George?
Pinky swear? Spit handshake? Atta boy.

"Here it is: We both know who I really am, don't we? I know you
secretly admire my scaly red flesh, my shining black eyes, these
bitchin' horns, the breath worse than Rove's after his morning meal of
seared panda hearts. Of course you know the real God is more than a
little disgusted by you and your administration, right?

"Well, screw her. Typical woman, all benevolent and chthonic and
compassionate. We know who's really in charge of your nasty
administration, don't we, Dubya? Damned right. And I mean that
literally. Keep your hands in the fire, if you know what I mean. Now
c'mere and give me a hot tongue kiss. Sorry about charring the carpet.
Sweet dreams."