Today, some people are celebrating. Some–like the group here in New Orleans that’s mounting a jazz funeral for democracy–are in mourning. Most, I would imagine, are just going about their daily routine, content to know that miles away, pomp, circumstance, and the American political machine are still thriving.
Me, I’m somewhere in-between. Since November 2, 2004, I’ve traipsed through denial (“I’m pinching myself, but nothing’s happening”), anger (“Jesus H. Christ, I’m off to Canada”), depression (“Huh? Wazzat? Just pour daddy another lil’ drinkie-poo, baby”), and bargaining (“Okay, I’ll give him privatization of Social Security if he’ll back off the fagbashing”), and finally sashayed toward grim acceptance.
Right now, I guess you could say I’m hopeful: hopeful that GW will avoid hurling us into another war we can ill-afford; hopeful that Condoleeza Rice can mend some bridges with our former allies in Europe and elsewhere; hopeful that Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld will be caught in flagrante by photographers from the London Times, the New York Times, the National Enquirer, and National Geographic. But then, maybe I’m being too optimistic.
Which is why I’m kicking off round two of Bush fils with a politely worded letter to the Big Cheese, letting him (or at least the lackey who reads his email) know that, well…I’ve got my eye on him. Not that I expect the Big Brother technique to work terribly well on a man who helped engineer the Patriot Act, but it’s worth a shot. Why not give it a try yourself?
sturtle [dot] com 