Scenes From A Bush Thanksgiving
Dubya pouts, Cheney scowls, no one brings pie -- and why is Rove
looking at Barb that way?
By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist

Wednesday, November 23, 2005


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Email This Article

Mark Morford
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Who is this guy?


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
George W. Bush Gives Me Hope - The astonishing collapse of the B...
11/18/2005
Let Us Blow Up Bill O'Reilly - Of course the PR-sucking Fox News...
11/16/2005

To The Drunk Who Smashed My Car - Quite a wreck you made, didn't...
11/11/2005

Evil Is So Damned Boring - Karl Rove, pasty neocon judges, "Saw ...
11/09/2005







Ah yes, it is that time again. The smell of roasting turkey and cigar
smoke and Polo cologne, perfume like florid gasoline. Copious forced
laughter that sounds like geese mating in a broom closet. It is
Thanksgiving dinner at the Bush White House, where the guests mingle as
though their genitals were being squeezed by manic elves, as if they
were all coated in vanilla pudding being licked off by Pat Robertson.
Which, truth be told, some of them seem to enjoy. A lot.

They await the appearance of the bird in the cozy, heavily paneled
White House drawing room with the grand chandelier sparkling there
since the Truman administration, the rest of the space engorged with
stuffy furniture Laura chose herself and which she thinks is manly and
presidential but which actually looks like it was bought at a Jersey
consignment store run by Ethan Allen's stoned brother.

Barbara rules. Owns the house, despite how she hasn't lived here in
over 13 years. Laura can only look at her in numb awe, her own stiff
skirt pleats appearing humble and small in comparison to Barb's massive
teal dress ensemble, so epic and balloon-like it would seem to envelope
all it comes near, like a giant ocean algae bloom, a massive amoeba, a
cloud of righteous know-it-allness that makes easy mockery of Laura's
little beige blouse of meek sexless humility. Barb is a force of
nature, commanding the staff and chatting up the various heads of state
and smiling at everyone with that glassy omnivorous stare. They all
hate her.

George Sr. notices this, of course, from his usual place back beside
the old bookcase that hasn't been perused in five years, sips his gin
fizz and chuckles softly at the scene, thinkin' about golf, thinkin'
about how long ago it all seems since his reign of tepid ineptitude,
but thinkin', also, about how history will be much kinder to him now
that his son has run the country into a blood-drenched wall. He-he-he.
He'll drink to that.

It's the thing no one mentions, but which hangs over the room like a
pall. Junior's current miserable poll numbers now mean that he and his
father share the honor of being two of the four most unpopular
presidents in modern history, right alongside Carter and Nixon. But
Bush 41 does not care. He gets to hang with Clinton now. He is
grandfatherly and forgettable and almost invisible. In other words, his
stature has improved considerably, in relation to his son. Damn this
gin is good. Too bad Junior can't have some. Looks like he could use
it.

George Jr. is perturbed. He is sulky and pouty and has to force a
smirky grin at the guests as they enter the banquet room, pretending as
if he really wanted them all there, all these betrayers and
backstabbers and people he thought he knew but who turn out, instead,
to be involved in whole big bunches of illegal and traitorous stuff he
has no clue about. They are all a bunch of goddamn boogerheads, he
thinks.

He forces a smile. No one is willing to hold his blinky little gaze for
more than three seconds. He wants to scream. He wants to run away. He
wants a beer. He wants 10 beers. He grabs a fistful of baseball-shaped
hors d'oeuvres (Gul-dang, I love baseball, he thinks). Barb shoots him
a look: Sit up straight, stop pouting or else, use a napkin. He sips
his mineral water, sullenly, chats with McClellan while scanning the
room for Condi, though his eyes first find Rove, slithering around as
usual.

Rove works the room, shakes hands, squeezing a little too hard to
remind everyone who "the architect" really is. Everyone understands,
even as they furtively wipe their hands on their pants after he touches
them. Rove grabs fistfuls of baby shrimp and shoves them into his mouth
when he thinks no one's looking, swallows without chewing. He smells
like baby aspirin and old bacon.

Karl sneaks furtive glances at Barb. He is awed by her natural power,
her girth, her effortless cunning. That teal makes her look so ... so
.... seaworthy. He wants her. Badly. She knows it. They have a secret
thing -- it is matronly and sweaty and creepy as hell and takes place
every other Sunday in a Ritz-Carlton just off the Beltway.

Rummy knows all about it. He and Dick stand near the bar and take huge
swigs of scotch and puffs from thick Cuban cigars and speak in low,
mean tones out the sides of their mouths, occasionally bursting into
dark laughter that sounds like a brick being dragged over a cheese
grater. Rummy says something about the Karl/Barb flesh-fest and
wonders, a little too loudly, if Oedipus would have felt differently
about his mother if she had spanked him. Cheney grunts, retorts with a
joke about how pleasurable it must be to hold a lit cigarette near the
open eyeball of a terrified prisoner in Guantanamo and demand Osama's
cell phone number. Ha.

Dick glances over at Lynne, who is, of course, eyeing one of the Latina
servants with open-mouthed hunger. Dick hasn't seen Lynne naked in
years. He realizes this is a very good thing. Something to be thankful
for, certainly. But Lynne is happy. Her life is full of joyous bridge
tournaments and bashing of gay rights and copious lesbian fantasies.
She is nothing like poor, lost Condi.


Condi is lonely. So, so lonely, sitting over in the far corner, all by
herself, nursing her one glass of white wine. No one really talks to
her anymore except Dubya and a maybe few brusque words from Rummy, who
she suspects is always imagining her cleaning his guns and polishing
his boots and calling him "master." Suddenly, her heart jumps. She sees
Dubya looking at her from across the room. She smiles that demonic,
dominatrix-y smile that always creeps out the Asian press. He does that
thing with his thin little lips, that little gesture only she
understands. Her body is instantly warmed. Oh their special bond, a
dark secret. It is her breath, her raison d'être. It keeps her alive.

Sam Alito stops by, darts in and out, stealing bites, patting everyone
on the back, runs up and gives Dubya a big hug, which embarrasses Dubya
and makes Cheney look at him even more disdainfully. Sam is laughing
too loudly. He smells of tequila and bad ideas. Laura, however, giggles
and looks at him coyly. Her legs quiver. She is wearing way too much
White Diamonds and her hair hasn't moved since 2003. No one cares.

Meanwhile, Jenna and Barbara Jr. sneak tequila shots in the Rose Garden
and flirt with the Secret Service for, like, the millionth time, to no
effect. Jenna is so, like, buzzed. She adjusts her bra strap, again.
Then her thong. Damn but she hates these formal things. That Alito guy
keeps coming out, begging for shots. They don't want to go back into
that miserable, dank banquet room. Barbara Jr. stares vacantly into the
near distance. Why couldn't life be more like it is on "The West Wing"?
That show, like, totally ruled.

The banquet room reeks and coils and sighs. It is full of bleak energy
and missed opportunities, spiritual paranoia and repressed desire and
dishonest laughter. The turkey comes out dry. There is not enough pie
for Dubya. Rumsfeld slurps his scotch, drunkenly. Dick eyes the dark
thigh meat. Condi has to pee. There is little to be thankful for,
inside this room.

Outside, however, among the nation's awakening throngs, gratitude and
hope are beginning to swell and grow anew. Only three years left. It's
long but not that long. Every person in that gloomy room will be gone.
History. Nothing left but an ugly stain, oily residue, scar tissue. The
room will be refreshed. The turkey will be moist. There will be more
cranberry sauce. This dark, warmongering chapter will finally end. Pie
all around.

It is not, the world realizes, too early to be thankful for that

Speaking of another Lemming, here is Kevin providing his only contribute to
rec.boats, a cut and paste article.


wrote in message
oups.com...
Scenes From A Bush Thanksgiving
Dubya pouts, Cheney scowls, no one brings pie -- and why is Rove
looking at Barb that way?
By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist

Wednesday, November 23, 2005


Printable Version
Email This Article

Mark Morford
Archives
Subscribe to Notes & Errata
Subscribe to RSS Feed
Who is this guy?


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
George W. Bush Gives Me Hope - The astonishing collapse of the B...
11/18/2005
Let Us Blow Up Bill O'Reilly - Of course the PR-sucking Fox News...
11/16/2005

To The Drunk Who Smashed My Car - Quite a wreck you made, didn't...
11/11/2005

Evil Is So Damned Boring - Karl Rove, pasty neocon judges, "Saw ...
11/09/2005







Ah yes, it is that time again. The smell of roasting turkey and cigar
smoke and Polo cologne, perfume like florid gasoline. Copious forced
laughter that sounds like geese mating in a broom closet. It is
Thanksgiving dinner at the Bush White House, where the guests mingle as
though their genitals were being squeezed by manic elves, as if they
were all coated in vanilla pudding being licked off by Pat Robertson.
Which, truth be told, some of them seem to enjoy. A lot.

They await the appearance of the bird in the cozy, heavily paneled
White House drawing room with the grand chandelier sparkling there
since the Truman administration, the rest of the space engorged with
stuffy furniture Laura chose herself and which she thinks is manly and
presidential but which actually looks like it was bought at a Jersey
consignment store run by Ethan Allen's stoned brother.

Barbara rules. Owns the house, despite how she hasn't lived here in
over 13 years. Laura can only look at her in numb awe, her own stiff
skirt pleats appearing humble and small in comparison to Barb's massive
teal dress ensemble, so epic and balloon-like it would seem to envelope
all it comes near, like a giant ocean algae bloom, a massive amoeba, a
cloud of righteous know-it-allness that makes easy mockery of Laura's
little beige blouse of meek sexless humility. Barb is a force of
nature, commanding the staff and chatting up the various heads of state
and smiling at everyone with that glassy omnivorous stare. They all
hate her.

George Sr. notices this, of course, from his usual place back beside
the old bookcase that hasn't been perused in five years, sips his gin
fizz and chuckles softly at the scene, thinkin' about golf, thinkin'
about how long ago it all seems since his reign of tepid ineptitude,
but thinkin', also, about how history will be much kinder to him now
that his son has run the country into a blood-drenched wall. He-he-he.
He'll drink to that.

It's the thing no one mentions, but which hangs over the room like a
pall. Junior's current miserable poll numbers now mean that he and his
father share the honor of being two of the four most unpopular
presidents in modern history, right alongside Carter and Nixon. But
Bush 41 does not care. He gets to hang with Clinton now. He is
grandfatherly and forgettable and almost invisible. In other words, his
stature has improved considerably, in relation to his son. Damn this
gin is good. Too bad Junior can't have some. Looks like he could use
it.

George Jr. is perturbed. He is sulky and pouty and has to force a
smirky grin at the guests as they enter the banquet room, pretending as
if he really wanted them all there, all these betrayers and
backstabbers and people he thought he knew but who turn out, instead,
to be involved in whole big bunches of illegal and traitorous stuff he
has no clue about. They are all a bunch of goddamn boogerheads, he
thinks.

He forces a smile. No one is willing to hold his blinky little gaze for
more than three seconds. He wants to scream. He wants to run away. He
wants a beer. He wants 10 beers. He grabs a fistful of baseball-shaped
hors d'oeuvres (Gul-dang, I love baseball, he thinks). Barb shoots him
a look: Sit up straight, stop pouting or else, use a napkin. He sips
his mineral water, sullenly, chats with McClellan while scanning the
room for Condi, though his eyes first find Rove, slithering around as
usual.

Rove works the room, shakes hands, squeezing a little too hard to
remind everyone who "the architect" really is. Everyone understands,
even as they furtively wipe their hands on their pants after he touches
them. Rove grabs fistfuls of baby shrimp and shoves them into his mouth
when he thinks no one's looking, swallows without chewing. He smells
like baby aspirin and old bacon.

Karl sneaks furtive glances at Barb. He is awed by her natural power,
her girth, her effortless cunning. That teal makes her look so ... so
.... seaworthy. He wants her. Badly. She knows it. They have a secret
thing -- it is matronly and sweaty and creepy as hell and takes place
every other Sunday in a Ritz-Carlton just off the Beltway.

Rummy knows all about it. He and Dick stand near the bar and take huge
swigs of scotch and puffs from thick Cuban cigars and speak in low,
mean tones out the sides of their mouths, occasionally bursting into
dark laughter that sounds like a brick being dragged over a cheese
grater. Rummy says something about the Karl/Barb flesh-fest and
wonders, a little too loudly, if Oedipus would have felt differently
about his mother if she had spanked him. Cheney grunts, retorts with a
joke about how pleasurable it must be to hold a lit cigarette near the
open eyeball of a terrified prisoner in Guantanamo and demand Osama's
cell phone number. Ha.

Dick glances over at Lynne, who is, of course, eyeing one of the Latina
servants with open-mouthed hunger. Dick hasn't seen Lynne naked in
years. He realizes this is a very good thing. Something to be thankful
for, certainly. But Lynne is happy. Her life is full of joyous bridge
tournaments and bashing of gay rights and copious lesbian fantasies.
She is nothing like poor, lost Condi.


Condi is lonely. So, so lonely, sitting over in the far corner, all by
herself, nursing her one glass of white wine. No one really talks to
her anymore except Dubya and a maybe few brusque words from Rummy, who
she suspects is always imagining her cleaning his guns and polishing
his boots and calling him "master." Suddenly, her heart jumps. She sees
Dubya looking at her from across the room. She smiles that demonic,
dominatrix-y smile that always creeps out the Asian press. He does that
thing with his thin little lips, that little gesture only she
understands. Her body is instantly warmed. Oh their special bond, a
dark secret. It is her breath, her raison d'être. It keeps her alive.

Sam Alito stops by, darts in and out, stealing bites, patting everyone
on the back, runs up and gives Dubya a big hug, which embarrasses Dubya
and makes Cheney look at him even more disdainfully. Sam is laughing
too loudly. He smells of tequila and bad ideas. Laura, however, giggles
and looks at him coyly. Her legs quiver. She is wearing way too much
White Diamonds and her hair hasn't moved since 2003. No one cares.

Meanwhile, Jenna and Barbara Jr. sneak tequila shots in the Rose Garden
and flirt with the Secret Service for, like, the millionth time, to no
effect. Jenna is so, like, buzzed. She adjusts her bra strap, again.
Then her thong. Damn but she hates these formal things. That Alito guy
keeps coming out, begging for shots. They don't want to go back into
that miserable, dank banquet room. Barbara Jr. stares vacantly into the
near distance. Why couldn't life be more like it is on "The West Wing"?
That show, like, totally ruled.

The banquet room reeks and coils and sighs. It is full of bleak energy
and missed opportunities, spiritual paranoia and repressed desire and
dishonest laughter. The turkey comes out dry. There is not enough pie
for Dubya. Rumsfeld slurps his scotch, drunkenly. Dick eyes the dark
thigh meat. Condi has to pee. There is little to be thankful for,
inside this room.

Outside, however, among the nation's awakening throngs, gratitude and
hope are beginning to swell and grow anew. Only three years left. It's
long but not that long. Every person in that gloomy room will be gone.
History. Nothing left but an ugly stain, oily residue, scar tissue. The
room will be refreshed. The turkey will be moist. There will be more
cranberry sauce. This dark, warmongering chapter will finally end. Pie
all around.

It is not, the world realizes, too early to be thankful for that

Sir Rodney Smithers wrote:
Speaking of another Lemming, here is Kevin providing his only contribute to
rec.boats, a cut and paste article.

Too bad I'm not Kevin, dip****. By the way, have you figured out what
anybody who goes to Table 1280 sees that they won't see anywhere else?
It's a very prominent feature. If you've really been there, you'd know.

Also, seeing how you are blindly, idiotically insistant on thinking I'm
Kevin, and you live in the area, let's meet up somewhere, I'll gladly
show you my driver's license. I'd LOVE to do that, so you and the rest
of the idiots who think I'm Kevin, would know once and for all how
stupid they are! You up for that?

Kevin,
I have already admitted I have never been to the High Museum of Art, I have
never seen the ASO, I have never been to the Alliance Theater, have never
eaten at the Table 1280, have never been to Downtown Atlanta, and I have
never been to the State of Georgia. Heck I admit I may not have even heard
of the State of Georgia.

Now, are you ready to admit you have never heard the APO perform?


wrote in message
oups.com...

Sir Rodney Smithers wrote:
Speaking of another Lemming, here is Kevin providing his only contribute
to
rec.boats, a cut and paste article.

Too bad I'm not Kevin, dip****. By the way, have you figured out what
anybody who goes to Table 1280 sees that they won't see anywhere else?
It's a very prominent feature. If you've really been there, you'd know.

Also, seeing how you are blindly, idiotically insistant on thinking I'm
Kevin, and you live in the area, let's meet up somewhere, I'll gladly
show you my driver's license. I'd LOVE to do that, so you and the rest
of the idiots who think I'm Kevin, would know once and for all how
stupid they are! You up for that?

Sir Rodney Smithers wrote:
Kevin,
I have already admitted I have never been to the High Museum of Art, I have
never seen the ASO, I have never been to the Alliance Theater, have never
eaten at the Table 1280, have never been to Downtown Atlanta, and I have
never been to the State of Georgia. Heck I admit I may not have even heard
of the State of Georgia.

I'm not Kevin you idiot.

Now, are you ready to admit you have never heard the APO perform?

No, because I have, dumb ass.

It's nice for the group to know what a lying piece of crap you are,
though.

wrote:
Sir Rodney Smithers wrote:
Speaking of another Lemming, here is Kevin providing his only contribute to
rec.boats, a cut and paste article.

Too bad I'm not Kevin, dip****. .....I'd LOVE to do that, so you and the rest
of the idiots who think I'm Kevin, would know once and for all how
stupid they are! You up for that?

So mych for your hyprocritical "namecalling vs. credability"

atl_man,

What venue did you see the APO perform and when did you see them?


wrote in message
oups.com...

Sir Rodney Smithers wrote:
Kevin,
I have already admitted I have never been to the High Museum of Art, I
have
never seen the ASO, I have never been to the Alliance Theater, have never
eaten at the Table 1280, have never been to Downtown Atlanta, and I have
never been to the State of Georgia. Heck I admit I may not have even
heard
of the State of Georgia.

I'm not Kevin you idiot.

Now, are you ready to admit you have never heard the APO perform?

No, because I have, dumb ass.

It's nice for the group to know what a lying piece of crap you are,
though.

I'm not Kevin you idiot.

No, because I have, dumb ass.

It's nice for the group to know what a lying piece of crap you are,
though

ho hum....credablility at its finest

Did you notice he has always ignored the question concerning the APO and the
venue he heard them perform at?

According to the APO, they have never had a public performance. The only
time they have ever played together is at private practice sessions.


wrote in message
oups.com...
I'm not Kevin you idiot.

No, because I have, dumb ass.

It's nice for the group to know what a lying piece of crap you are,
though

ho hum....credablility at its finest

wrote in message
ups.com...

wrote:
Sir Rodney Smithers wrote:
Speaking of another Lemming, here is Kevin providing his only
contribute to
rec.boats, a cut and paste article.

Too bad I'm not Kevin, dip****. .....I'd LOVE to do that, so you and the
rest
of the idiots who think I'm Kevin, would know once and for all how
stupid they are! You up for that?

So mych for your hyprocritical "namecalling vs. credability"

Liebrals are infamous fro whining about others doing the very thing they
themselves are guilty of.