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Edited on Wed Oct-12-05 03:33 PM by DancingBear
“Call out the instigators,
because there’s something in the air”
-Thunderclap Newman-
I walked into a new house yesterday – one that everyone thought was strong and true and built to last the ages. As I walked, the joists cracked under my feet, and the floor sagged. The appliances only worked when no one was looking, and the fireplace gasped for breath. The toilets gleamed under artificial sunlight, but brought their contents up instead of down when asked to perform. The sinks were all on strike, and the windows were too busy to open. Heating and cooling were merely concepts, and the garage doubled as a lap pool.
I thought someone would want to know, so when I found the builders, I told them everything.
They blamed me.
Welcome to BushWorld.
Like the new house above, Mr. Bush and his band of not so merry men are in one big pile of Toby Keith approved horseshit, and the stench is growing stronger by the minute. The word of the day, boys and girls, is “indictment”, and it seems as if the vocabulary challenged mainstream media have finally found themselves a dictionary. Hot dog, kids, it’s phonics time.
We have the defacto President fighting with the actual President, while the Puppet President looks at a hammer and wonders what it is. We have a supposed reporter for a liberal paper making goo-goo eyes at an adult(!) named Scooter. We have a woman whose previous greatest claim to fame was making sure the bingo drum worked hitting the moist button every time she gets within fainting distance of New Judge George, but unfortunately forgetting to tell him on that August afternoon that airplanes+Bin Laden=not good. Swoon. He must have been wearing his blue shirt.
We have people on Air Force One going “hey, did you see this” while a woman in service to her country gets a bulls-eye drawn on her back because hubby dared to tell the truth. We have people lying like rugs to grand juries, then running around saying “no - I just forgot, I just forgot” when they get called out. We’ve got Scooter passing notes to his prison squeeze via Johnny “The Dust Mop” Bolton, and coded missives that, when read backwards in the dead of night, say “for God’s sake Judy make sure they take the blue dress to the cleaners.”
It won’t help, though. All the cleaning in the world will matter little, for when the little birdies start singing to save their own pathetic little hides the dirt will come from every corner, and from every hole. Cowards all, they will point and say “he did it, he did it” to anyone who has ever met them, and like the men of yesteryear who tried to say it was third-rate burglary they will be hoisted high on their own petards. Meanwhile, The Idiot Son can add “President” to the list of jobs he has fucked up beyond all recognition.
Would you buy a new house from these people?
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