Tuesday, September 27, 2005
 

I don't know if it's a wise way to pass my time, but lately I've been thinking about how the Bush administration does it. Does what?, you ignorantly wonder. Does it. If the it were easy to describe, the democrats would be in the White House right now.

Take this for example. First they install Michael Brown, a resumé stuffer without emergency management experience, as director of FEMA. Next, as Brown is bungling the response to Katrina, Bush famously gives the thumbs-up to "Brownie"'s work. A few days later, after it's clear that the best way to avoid getting shit splashed on them is to make Brown the fall guy, the Bush administration tacitly admits they were wrong about Brown when they "recall" him to DC. And now, apparently not content simply to admit a mistake and remedy it, they hire Brown as a consultant to determine what went wrong with the response.

There's one word for that it: ballsy. Or is it ballsey?

And then there's the way they constantly claim that their various fuck-ups are the result of them not having enough power. Katrina is another great example of this one. Bush responds to criticism of the government's response by saying that in the future the feds need to have more power in the wake of disasters. And what's great is that people seem to buy it. Where else in life can you fuck up your responsibilities and turn that into a way of getting more responsibility?

I just read Peter Lance's book 100 Years for Revenge which tells the shocking story of the FBI's mishandling of the early days of al Qaeda in the US. First, Sheik Rahman's cell was being surveilled, then an informant actually infiltrated the cell. The FBI had all the information they needed, but the case was closed because of an internal turf war. Then there's the whole Able Danger thing. But rather than figure out why information our various agencies were already getting wasn't being used, the Bush administration felt compelled to bring us the Patriotic Act.

In an effort to put the it into practice, I bring you this fictional exchange between a suitor and the object of his desire.

SUITOR: Hey there, toots.

DESIRE: Did you just call me "toots?"

SUITOR: What?

DESIRE: You just called me "toots" and I'm really kind of offed....

SUITOR: No I didn't, but I can see that we've got a lot to talk about, you and I.

DESIRE: Um, huh?

SUITOR: You know, I think you're really beautiful and I'd like to buy you a drink. Merlot?

DESIRE: Actually, this is just club soda....

SUITOR: Perfect. Jack and Ginger it is. Ramón! Jack and Ginger for my baby here! ¡Arriba!

RAMÓN: My name is Hajii.

SUITOR: Of course it is, Juan.

DESIRE: Wait... "baby?"

SUITOR: Oh, not yet, honey. Let's get to know each other first.

[THE DRINK ARRIVES]

SUITOR: Perfect. A Jack and Ginger for the....

[THE SUITOR SPILLS THE DRINK ON TO HIS DESIRE'S LAP]

DESIRE: Oh. My. God.

SUITOR: Delicious, yes?

DESIRE: You just spilled this fucking drink all over me!

SUITOR: I did, and in order to avoid that happening in the future, I suggest we retire to the phone booth so you can give me a deep-throated blow job.

Analogcabin @ 3:30 PM
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