The International Writers
This is truly a country
run by lunatics.
A Month Of Peeling Back White House Mayhem
Have you left me the last
Of the dum dum daze
Then the sun goes down
And the boys broke down
- Iggy Pop
It is the only explanation.
The days of discussing the evil intent of the body politic, the corruption
of power, and the insidious nature birthed by the grievous land-baron
history of this great but flawed republic are finally buried beneath an
avalanche of Herculean incompetence. It's official. The Bush Administration
rivals the most dysfunctional parade of rogues ever to tread the halls
of this government. No small feat when considering some of the scabrous
cretins to hold this nation's most cherished titles. In one month, give
or take, the house of cards held together by the flimsiest of shreds has
tumbled down in an almost humorous heap on the head of our flatlined Boy
Let's start with this nonsense surrounding embattled Attorney
General Alberto Gonzales, who has spent weeks awkwardly defending himself
and the justice department against flaccid charges of political intrigue,
when all he had to do was tell congress to fuck off. What kind of lawyer
is this idiot? What is he hiding? Agenda? Agendas make up the whole of
Washington. No one goes to the toilet without ulterior motives in DC.
Presidents have absolute power over the federal government's law officers.
He can fire one for denting his car. No explanation necessary.
For reasons only known to those in charge, Gonzales is on
trial for defending the administration's honor. Honor? Again, I ask, what
kind of lawyer is this jack ass? Just because he kept Bush from political
oblivion in Texas by hiding a goofy DWI does not make him attorney general
of save-face. Forget what you think of the spirit of the law or political
agendas, you want the head of your nation's justice department acting
like a sixteen year-old girl with a pocket-book full of speed and condoms
jabbering out cheap excuses about holding them for friends?
Gonzales is so pathetic under cross-examination he makes
his predecessor, John Ashcroft, a vapid troll who once lost a Missouri
senate election to a corpse, look like Honest Abe.
On the heels of this freak show another Bush reject, Paul
Wolfowitz, head of the World Bank, whose dim-witted fantasies fueled the
ill-conceived Iraq invasion, is busted handing over a cushy job and a
huge pay hike to the woman he's currently screwing. Soon he will join
the growing list of administration boobs who were forced to resign as
Fast forward to former CIA Director George Tenet and his
laughably exploitive tales of woe and finger pointing in At The Center
Of The Storm, wherein the author comes off as a holy amalgamation
of Saint Paul meets Gunga Din. But as with all fiction there's a core
of truth within, one that has been echoed in this space for nearly seven
years now: Stupidity and hubris out duels fiendish scheming every time
True, Tenet is as gutless and wormy as Richard Clarke, who
also claimed to know and warn and bellow everything known to modern souls
only to continue to cull a government pay check while remaining silent
until booted. If there is such a thing as guilt, it falls on him, as it
falls on the others who not only bungled everything since 9/11, but the
months leading up to it.
Again, as written here mere days after the towers
went down, of course Bush and Rice and Cheney and Powell and the CIA and
the FBI knew about a potential attack on a major American city. They fucked
up. Big time. Blood is all over these people, and that's how the job goes.
Run a nation, nation is attacked, you're to blame. No matter how many
countries you bomb. Plenty of blame, jack. But once again these petty
smear campaigns and the endless back-biting childishness is a glaring
reflection on how things are running and have been run around here --
like some soused frat house bungle wretched with blind cronyism and kegs
flying through windows, bad boys dick-fighting and puffing chests, stumbling
around hallowed halls fist-fucking the constitution.
And it's too bad.
Bush was the mediocre elite's last shot at greatness. He
was our boozehound coke fiend C-student who would run America like a Texas
ho-down. It was to be a freewheel, but then he mucked it up by bringing
in his daddy's has-beens, recycled fossils who saw one last chance at
the brass ring. Not a one of them could keep from dragging our hero and
his puppeteer, Karl Rove down with them.
I was rooting for Rove. I was. He helped defeat one of the
vilest of human diseases, Al Gore, by cheating and stealing everything
this country claimed to hold dear. It was a thing of brutal beauty, half-mad,
half-genius. Rove was as close to invincible as a democracy could hope
to produce; a chronic masturbator with a weakness for jellow-shots and
The Stooges' "Raw Power" on vinyl, but someone mistook him for
an intellect and gave him the keys to the president's brain, which he
recklessly commandeered into disaster.
Now Bush's approval ratings flounder somewhere in the mid-20s,
close to a Watergate low. Stunning, even for a monumental screw up. His
war is now officially a suicide anvil roped around his neck and Jesus
has abandoned him. He no longer speaks in private anymore, at least not
anything close to coherent. In public he manages to burp out weird things
like "internets" and some Seussian nonsense about "Victory
is not no violence." Insiders say he lives in constant fear there's
another Scooter Libby stumbling drunk and angry through the White House
looking to dump more foul odors on his office. Key aids are on 24-hour
notice to keep him informed if the vice president shoots anyone else.
And no one who used to make decisions around the man has
a clue why the Secretary of State is running around Syria trying to get
warlords to put the hammer down in Iraq. Talk is she missed a sign or
is bunting on her own, because it's madness-squared and will put us in
further debt to religious goons, the very reason we're in this shit storm
in the first place.
Hey, laugh if you wish. I know I'm laughing. You can't make
this stuff up. Believe me, I try. Every day. But it pales. Nothing comes
close to this mania. Nothing.
I've got it on pretty good authority that the president's
dog has been appointed Secretary of the Interior.
Tell me you think that's a joke.
© James Campion May 11th 2007
On Main St
Funky, Junky, Blues
I gave you diamonds, you give me disease.
On May 12, nineteen hundred and seventy-two, the greatest rock and
roll album by the greatest rock and roll band, smack dab in the middle
of the genre's golden age, hit the streets.
'All this happened, more or less'
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
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