Why I Stopped
There was a time, fueled by George W. Bush's favorable approval ratings, when I wrote frequent, impassioned pieces about why he was wrong and why he didn't deserve approval from anyone.
But now I'm like a cat and he's like a dead fish on a pier--not fun to play with once his gills and fins have been ripped off and he's stopped twitching.
My observations of Bush now are so simple, they are almost Zen-like.
Simply put, if he's for it, I am against it.
Because he has yet to make one sound decision, he's therefore proven to be always wrong.
His latest energy plans? Wrong.
His farewell tour of Europe? Wrong.
His bragging that the surge in Iraq is working? Wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
The only thing that still interests me in the slightest about Bush is trying to decide what proportion of negative character traits make up the man.
Is he stupider than he is mean spirited?
Are his lowbrow tastes trumped by his grandiosity?
Is his incuriosity overshadowed by his banality?
Is his arrogance dwarfed by his social ineptitude?
Did the drugs and booze kill too many brain cells, or was he already just plain dumb?
Or maybe he was just the unfortunate byproduct of two drunks: a black-hearted battle axe and a wimpy, simpering, silver spoon male.
Now that his horrific political career is drawing to a close, how I wish he'd dismiss his handlers, sell the prop-ranch and go back to Connecticut, or Kennebunkport, or wherever isn't Texas.
Let his dumb-ass drill for oil off the coast of the family compound in Maine.
He's not a Texan and never was.