It's a Hard Job Workin' HardThe President sounded more like the "Pressuredent" as he delivered his latest bellicose defense of our lovable Secretary of Offense. The content wasn't very surprising, just another in a long line of, "I like him. He knows what he's doing despite his record and the Generals' comments. And, I'm gonna keep him because I, as always, know what's best for the country", statements.
No, what was surprising was the voice he used to deliver the message. Unusually high-pitched and desperate, he sounded on the verge of tears. It was the voice of a small boy whining about being caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Better, the voice of a singer trapped in his own spotlight, unsure of the words to the song and nervously humming to keep the tune alive. His discomfort was palpable and listening to him was a little like listening to someone come unglued.
We're the first to admit that he's simply reaping what he sewed, but we do find it a fascinating insight into the wear and tear of the Presidency - even on the record-setting vacationing variety.
Bumbler the Clown spent the first four years of his presidency greatly shielded from the vagaries of the presidency by a think blanket of cronies, conservative zealots, and underlings who continuously fed his extraordinarily large ego. Through a series of unforeseen disasters and self-inflicted shotgun wounds to a contributor's face, he finds that blanket getting a little frayed.
He's watched a steady stream of legacy-building projects dissolve into dust in his inept hands. As regular as clockwork, a fresh scandal or amazingly inept decision leaps up to replace the dozens that came before. The number of his cronies skating on the thin ice of politics is growing exponentially. And, all that erosion - natural and self-inflicted - is beginning to wear him away.
The hair is markedly greyer than just a few months back. His wattle is beginning to resemble Michael Douglas'. That irritating smirk is now mostly gone. He no longer leans over the podium like a rancher on his front porch dispatching wisdom straight from the Farmer's Almanac.
With those mental images, it occurs to us that Shrub might not go down in the inglorious blaze he deserves or in the blaze of glory he craves. Instead, he might just fade away, turning into pixels that extinguish one by one until his screen is blank. When there's nothing left but that last lonely pixel, his slavishly loyal cabal will slip away silently. Even the Dark Prince seems more detached than usual. If he were to assume the throne, he'd surely be gone by way of a heart attack within weeks.
So, maybe there will be no apocalyptic moment. Maybe there will be no final straw on the camel's back. Maybe there will be just a whimper and then darkness.
It's probably a better end of term than he deserves, but the end-result will be the same. He will be gone and we can all start the task of putting Humpty Dumptocracy back together again.
Either way, it works for us - as long as he's gone.
Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Tuesday, April 18, 2006