Votes, Not Bombs, Have Ignited this Revolution!
Senior Editor Sees 'Bushit' in the Sands of Time
Editorial by Jack Nichols
As I write, the Stock Market has plummeted to its lowest point this year. One thing's for sure, that hitching Social Security to that droopy Dow looks riskier every day.
The unerring 'Curse that Never Fails', a curse that must work either good or ill upon every individual, is, mystically, just now transforming the whole of American political and economic practice. It's as if Dr. Leo Louis Martello, Manhattan's Gay Witch, had himself scornfully pointed to the Established Puritanical Political System and bellowed:
“I Wish You Upon Yourself!!!”
Because political leaders have always been perceived as the anarchist's foes, I experienced a sharp, appreciative shudder at the thought of how any aspirant who dares today to assume the Office trappings marked Topmost Bugger, can no longer believe, in any meaningful sense, that his assumption of power will be personally beneficial to him.
Whoever moves into the White House while another moves out will know an equal paucity of applause. Is this not an anarchist's dream scene?
Strategy-poor radicals and anarchic revolutionists too often try to accomplish their worthy utopian aims through clumsy methods such as the demolition of architectural edifices. But the Election of 2000 has been mystically thrown by Fate, like a great non-violent neutron device, into the pissy, coiffured environs of the blithering Republican bourgeoisie.
Without a stone, a bullet or a bomb, the U.S. political Establishment trembles now at the prospect of the sharp, evenly-distributed division between our two major political parties, a rift that has never before been so curiously, wondrously apparent.
All the GOP's greedy pet money-distribution projects as well as its members' wacko behavioral quirks are suddenly being put under a national microscope again such as has not happened since the hey days of Watergate when Nixon's Republican cronies were looking very gray flannel- suited indeed, oozing Old Money's thoughtless bottom-line values; often quite ugly, as was Nixon himself, with telling expressions.
How well I still see the reality of those bland, tight, emotionally-vacant GOP faces, faces that one could only expect in people, after all, whose own selfish comforts are their primary concerns. What makes them ugly? The seven deadly sins, that's what. Like gluttony, for starters. And greed. Lots of stupid greed.
Last weekend, with special grace, Saturday Night Live lampooned Florida's Secretary of State, Katherine Harris. They gave her that ugly, shallow ditzy quality, a mini-minded shopper for smart clothes looking forward to an ambassadorship bestowed by a grateful George W. Bush. She would have to be appointed to a first-rate country, natch, and one where English is spoken.
Republican zealots, you know, have a generally blank look signifying they've experienced precious little physical or emotional pleasure in life. There's a pale anxiousness about them. Belly laughs are hard to come by in their realm of grim snickers. They oppose everything sexual because they've never enjoyed sex at all.
Sexual desires are shameful, they think, as is certainly sexual activity itself. The GOP gang is, on the whole, truly puritanical—and pathologically jealous too, living in fear that someone, somewhere, is having ecstatic fun.
Check out George W.'s nervous grimacing. I can generally perceive much of a man's character such as is written on Bush's furrowed brow, especially after having lived as long as I have. I say W.'s smile is ridden with guilt. Why can't half of my voting fellow Americans see this? Bush feels unworthy. And why? Because he has been. And he still thinks he's unworthy. Maybe he's right! If he becomes President, he'll certainly discover how folks think he's undeserving.
George W. Bush's face shows he experiences the kind of guilt felt by a man who, although he was reared with a silver dildo in his orifice, drank until he was forty years old and, during that time, did a host of obnoxious, pushy things of which he was not proud.
If Bush is elected, I'd like to write the movie, one to reflect on the dangers surrounding us as a President returns to boozing while the going gets rough in and around the White House.
It was another GOP President's son, one who ranks among my living heroes, who was quoted about George W.'s alcohol problem just a month before the DUI in Maine became public knowledge.
Ron Reagan, Jr., when queried about his Bush-boy peer asked:
“What's he ever accomplished? That he's no longer an obnoxious drunk?”
Hmmm. One President's son ought to know another's. That Ron says what he thinks. That's why I like him.
Bush, on the other hand, lied, or at least misled us when his 1976 DUI arrest became known. He pointedly claimed he'd learned from his mistakes. But when? He doesn't say. He went drinking heavily until 1986…ten more years. A slow learner, our George W. He was forty.
My movie script will begin with a singing Barbara Bush wearing blue, of course, and signaling that the election of 2000 is over. It will show George W. sneakily hiding his bottle in a White House broom closet, only to have it found by a puzzled maid. It will also show his aides worrying over breath mints they've found tucked away in his Oval Office desk. It will feature George W. stumbling idiotically into the near-mummified presence of the current Pope and vomiting on the holy man's toe, thereby making old Dad's faux pas in Japan a minor infraction by comparison.
Oh well, my dream movie will end, I suppose, with a George W. whimper instead of a bang. (W. stands for Whimper, you know). W is among the last letters in the alphabet, just as these are among the Last Days if George W. lets power go to his alcohol-soaked mini-brain.
But wait. There's a strong woman behind every Bush presidency, as we know. And its W.'s Mom, Barbara Bush, who's got her own aristocratic agenda which she won't allow her drunken son to besmirch. So she sits on his head in the Lincoln bedroom. He whimpers and expires. Barbara triumphs. She's Superwoman in Blue. She saves the good Bush name from the kind of black eye that she, with her snow white hair, can plainly do without.
Final scene? Don't you like happy endings? Remember when Barbara Bush actually ran into a tree on her sled? In movies you can change things a little.
Why just a tree? Why not a locomotive?