Tales of Brave Ulysses
for release
06-16-06
(Say this in your best Sean Connery voice) Bush is the name, George Bush.
I mean it's all so 007. The president yawns and excuses himself from a dinner party to be spirited away to Andrews Air Force Base and whisked on a magic carpet to Baghdad. It's just so Arabian Nights, so romantic, so swashbuckling.
The president wanted to be sure to remind us that Baghdad is a dangerous place and that he is "...a high-value target." You can't tell by his poll numbers. But real men don't worry about poll numbers. And real men drop in unannounced.
I wonder what would happen if the prime-minister of Jackoffistan or Chavez of Venezuela dropped in at the White House on five minutes notice demanding to see the Action Figure in Chief? I guess that etiquette is reserved for high-value targets.
Secret missions like this are so politically sexy. I mean what's not to like about a president who will put his life on the line, ride out in front of his troops like Mel Gibson in Braveheart and shout 'Freedom' in The Green Zone.
The president spent a hot five hours in the Green Zone. Let me explain the Green Zone. The Green Zone is an exclusive gated community. George Bush should feel quite at home there. Imagine Disneyland situated in Darfur, Sudan or East L.A. It has nothing to do with the world in which it exists. It has as much to do with the rest of Iraq as a confessional in a whorehouse.
So, the uber-president, at great risk to life and limb, gets on his jet with darkened windows, and like the Daring Decider he is, sneaks into the Green Zone like a thief in the night in order to exercise his super powers. BushMan has the rare psychic ability to see what is in the hearts and minds, nay, the SOULS of men, just by looking them in the eyes. He did it with Putin and probably does it all the time with Harriet Miers.
After five whole hours in the Green Zone he was ready to declare victory. He flew home and held a press conference. I'm surprised that he wasn't wearing his flack jacket and camouflage smudges on his face.
Even though this journey was about as hazardous as checking into the penthouse at the Beverly Hilton, the president returns to address the press like he had just accomplished the impossible. Truly, this is a man on a mission. Damn the poll numbers. Damn public opinion. We are going to have democracy in Iraq whether they like it or not.
The Poet's Eye saw Karl Rove in the audience at the press conference. He looked smug and exonerated. He looked at George Bush like Batman looks at Robin.
My worst fear is that G.W. Bush should be even a passable orator. If he were as articulate as, say, Gracie Allen, not to mention a Hitler or a Bill Clinton, then we would be in real trouble. So, instead of casting Bush as a thinker and orator, Rove have chosen to cast him as the JohnWayne/MarlboroMan/GaryCooper/ManOfFewWordsbutBoldDeeds. That might sell in Hollywood, but this is real life--or real death. Twenty-five hundred so far.
You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever,
But you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun.
And the colours of the sea bind your eyes with trembling mermaids,
And you touch the distant beaches with tales of brave Ulysses,
How his naked ears were tortured by the sirens sweetly singing,
For the sparkling waves are calling you to kiss their white laced lips.
--Clapton-Sharp
