President Bush makes a few remarks after visiting wounded soldiers at Brooke Army Medical Center, Sunday, Jan. 1, 2006, in San Antonio, Texas. President Bush is sporting a cut on the left side of his forehead from cutting down brush on his ranch. (AP Photo/Lawrence Jackson)
I laugh about it.
I like to kid about how, when I was in college, it wasn't unusual for me and my friends to cut and clear so much "brush" that, by the next day, we couldn't even remember where we cut that brush.
Sometimes, we'd wind up, in the early hours of the morning, holding onto a toilet, just vomitting up all the "brush" we had "cut". That's called "clearing" "brush", I guess. Once, I "cut" so much "brush", I got stomped by a pair of giant Samoan bouncers outside the Allen Room on College Avenue.
Apparently, they preferred that I just "trim" the "brush" and not "cut" so much. Fucking tree-huggers.
And me and my friends would get up the next day, after "cutting" and "clearing" so much "brush", and we'd literally stink of "brush". No amount of toothpaste or mouthwash could get the taste of "brush" out of our mouths.
But that didn't stop us from going out again that night for a "bike ride"!
And, it goes without saying, we "rode" our "bikes" hard, sometimes even passing out from a long "bike" "ride".
I joke about it.
I like to point out that there are only two kinds of grownups in modern American life who show up in public with as many contusions, lacerations, and bruises on their faces on such a regular basis as George W. Bush:
1. Prizefighters; and
2. Falling down drunks.
Though, to be fair, maybe rodeo clowns and women married to Bob Dornan do as well.
But I'm completely serious about it. And anybody who just didn't wake up on Earth yesterday should be, too.
The dude is a serious boozer. He hasn't given up shit.
Grown up people don't show up for work, Monday morning, all bloodied and bruised--what is this guy? In Fight Club? Grown-up people don't say "peeance, freeance" in public and not even notice that they just said it. Grown up people don't disappear and retreat into seclusion at times of stress. Only to reappear with, again, bruises, contusions, and lacerations on their faces.
You know who does?
Hardcore, falling down, howling alcoholics.
CRAWFORD, Tex., Dec. 31 - For six days, President Bush has stayed in nearly complete isolation on his ranch here - just mountain-biking and brush-clearing...
Six days of "brush-clearing" and "biking"? It's like Fort Lauderdale in February!
And after all that? Of course, he shows up all fucked up again.
Screw the National Enquirer. If you don't want to believe them, don't. I never do. And I don't think anyone else should, either. Instead, how about this: believe your common sense and lifetime of experience on this planet.
Ask yourself: how many times do I, as a grownup, show up for work after a vacation with a bunch of cuts and bruises on my head? Ask yourself: how many of my friends regularly show up, after a vacation, with lacerations and contusions on their face?
Ask yourself: how many grownups do I even see, in public, bloodied and bruised?
Ask yourself: how many people--not just among those you know or have heard of--in the history of the world have physically hurt themselves on a fucking pretzel? And that's not Michael Moore saying that. That's Bush, himself! He choked on a pretzel and wound up with a large bruise and a scrape on his left cheekbone, and a bruise on his lower lip.
A Sunday morning, your teenage kid shows up at the breakfast table looking like that, and you believe that sorry ass story?
Your Preznit shows up a couple of times a year all fucked up. And always after a little trip out of the spot light of the White House. He's a drunk.
The dude ain't only a drunk--he's a lousy, wildly out of control drunk.
Shit, I don't even think this horrid aspect of the totally fraudulent Bush administration is funny anymore. I mean, there are drunks and there are drunks.
I've done some hard drinking in my life. I've done some hard drinking with hard drinkers. I went to an Irish Catholic highschool. I tailgated at Penn State. I bartended for years.
I remember one bar I worked at, I used to unlock the doors early in the morning, every morning, to let in an Ivy League professor, before classes started, to pour him a shot of whiskey and a beer. And his hands shook so badly, at nine o'clock in the morning, that he couldn't pick up the glasses. He used to lower his face down to the bartop and suck up a little beer before he could down his shot.
But this guy? When he gets alone, he gets dangerously drunk. He hurts himself. Often. This guy hurts himself more than Bukowski when he's loaded. Christ, he needs a freaking Gary Busey Helmet-Protector Protector.
And this is a guy who calls himself a "War President". This is a guy who thinks God is talking to him. This is a guy who thinks he decides what the law is. This is a guy who thinks he has a mandate to fundamentally and unilaterally change our government, our society, and the world.
And he's such a yutz, putz and lousy, out of control boozer that he can't even take a long weekend without hurting himself.
Again, I used to laugh at what an obvious hard core alcoholic this dope is. I wasn't laughing at what he's been doing to the United States of America or the world. But I could still chuckle at what he does to himself.
I can't even laugh about that anymore. Just looking at this pathetic bozo, they're now undoubtably one and the same.