[Mb-civic] FW: More Morford - A Bush Thanksgiving

[George R. Milman]

November 23, 2005 by the San Francisco Chronicle 

Scenes From A Bush Thanksgiving - Dubya Pouts, Cheney Scowls, No One Brings
Pie - and Why is Rove Looking at Barb That Way? 

by Mark Morford

 

Ah yes, it is that time again. The smell of roasting turkey and cigar smoke
and Polo cologne, perfume like florid gasoline. Copious forced laughter that
sounds like geese mating in a broom closet. It is Thanksgiving dinner at the
Bush White House, where the guests mingle as though their genitals were
being squeezed by manic elves, as if they were all coated in vanilla pudding
being licked off by Pat Robertson. Which, truth be told, some of them seem
to enjoy. A lot. 

 

They await the appearance of the bird in the cozy, heavily paneled White
House drawing room with the grand chandelier sparkling there since the
Truman administration, the rest of the space engorged with stuffy furniture
Laura chose herself and which she thinks is manly and presidential but which
actually looks like it was bought at a Jersey consignment store run by Ethan
Allen's stoned brother. 

 

Barbara rules. Owns the house, despite how she hasn't lived here in over 13
years. Laura can only look at her in numb awe, her own stiff skirt pleats
appearing humble and small in comparison to Barb's massive teal dress
ensemble, so epic and balloon-like it would seem to envelope all it comes
near, like a giant ocean algae bloom, a massive amoeba, a cloud of righteous
know-it-allness that makes easy mockery of Laura's little beige blouse of
meek sexless humility. Barb is a force of nature, commanding the staff and
chatting up the various heads of state and smiling at everyone with that
glassy omnivorous stare. They all hate her. 

 

George Sr. notices this, of course, from his usual place back beside the old
bookcase that hasn't been perused in five years, sips his gin fizz and
chuckles softly at the scene, thinkin' about golf, thinkin' about how long
ago it all seems since his reign of tepid ineptitude, but thinkin', also,
about how history will be much kinder to him now that his son has run the
country into a blood-drenched wall. He-he-he. He'll drink to that. 

 

It's the thing no one mentions, but which hangs over the room like a pall.
Junior's current miserable poll numbers now mean that he and his father
share the honor of being two of the four most unpopular presidents in modern
history, right alongside Carter and Nixon. But Bush 41 does not care. He
gets to hang with Clinton now. He is grandfatherly and forgettable and
almost invisible. In other words, his stature has improved considerably, in
relation to his son. Damn this gin is good. Too bad Junior can't have some.
Looks like he could use it. 

 

George Jr. is perturbed. He is sulky and pouty and has to force a smirky
grin at the guests as they enter the banquet room, pretending as if he
really wanted them all there, all these betrayers and backstabbers and
people he thought he knew but who turn out, instead, to be involved in whole
big bunches of illegal and traitorous stuff he has no clue about. They are
all a bunch of goddamn boogerheads, he thinks. 

 

He forces a smile. No one is willing to hold his blinky little gaze for more
than three seconds. He wants to scream. He wants to run away. He wants a
beer. He wants 10 beers. He grabs a fistful of baseball-shaped hors
d'oeuvres (Gul-dang, I love baseball, he thinks). Barb shoots him a look:
Sit up straight, stop pouting or else, use a napkin. He sips his mineral
water, sullenly, chats with McClellan while scanning the room for Condi,
though his eyes first find Rove, slithering around as usual. 

 

Rove works the room, shakes hands, squeezing a little too hard to remind
everyone who "the architect" really is. Everyone understands, even as they
furtively wipe their hands on their pants after he touches them. Rove grabs
fistfuls of baby shrimp and shoves them into his mouth when he thinks no
one's looking, swallows without chewing. He smells like baby aspirin and old
bacon. 

 

Karl sneaks furtive glances at Barb. He is awed by her natural power, her
girth, her effortless cunning. That teal makes her look so ... so ...
seaworthy. He wants her. Badly. She knows it. They have a secret thing -- it
is matronly and sweaty and creepy as hell and takes place every other Sunday
in a Ritz-Carlton just off the Beltway. 

 

Rummy knows all about it. He and Dick stand near the bar and take huge swigs
of scotch and puffs from thick Cuban cigars and speak in low, mean tones out
the sides of their mouths, occasionally bursting into dark laughter that
sounds like a brick being dragged over a cheese grater. Rummy says something
about the Karl/Barb flesh-fest and wonders, a little too loudly, if Oedipus
would have felt differently about his mother if she had spanked him. Cheney
grunts, retorts with a joke about how pleasurable it must be to hold a lit
cigarette near the open eyeball of a terrified prisoner in Guantanamo and
demand Osama's cell phone number. Ha. 

 

Dick glances over at Lynne, who is, of course, eyeing one of the Latina
servants with open-mouthed hunger. Dick hasn't seen Lynne naked in years. He
realizes this is a very good thing. Something to be thankful for, certainly.
But Lynne is happy. Her life is full of joyous bridge tournaments and
bashing of gay rights and copious lesbian fantasies. She is nothing like
poor, lost Condi. 

 

Condi is lonely. So, so lonely, sitting over in the far corner, all by
herself, nursing her one glass of white wine. No one really talks to her
anymore except Dubya and a maybe few brusque words from Rummy, who she
suspects is always imagining her cleaning his guns and polishing his boots
and calling him "master." Suddenly, her heart jumps. She sees Dubya looking
at her from across the room. She smiles that demonic, dominatrix-y smile
that always creeps out the Asian press. He does that thing with his thin
little lips, that little gesture only she understands. Her body is instantly
warmed. Oh their special bond, a dark secret. It is her breath, her raison
d'être. It keeps her alive. 

 

Sam Alito stops by, darts in and out, stealing bites, patting everyone on
the back, runs up and gives Dubya a big hug, which embarrasses Dubya and
makes Cheney look at him even more disdainfully. Sam is laughing too loudly.
He smells of tequila and bad ideas. Laura, however, giggles and looks at him
coyly. Her legs quiver. She is wearing way too much White Diamonds and her
hair hasn't moved since 2003. No one cares. 

 

Meanwhile, Jenna and Barbara Jr. sneak tequila shots in the Rose Garden and
flirt with the Secret Service for, like, the millionth time, to no effect.
Jenna is so, like, buzzed. She adjusts her bra strap, again. Then her thong.
Damn but she hates these formal things. That Alito guy keeps coming out,
begging for shots. They don't want to go back into that miserable, dank
banquet room. Barbara Jr. stares vacantly into the near distance. Why
couldn't life be more like it is on "The West Wing"? That show, like,
totally ruled. 

 

The banquet room reeks and coils and sighs. It is full of bleak energy and
missed opportunities, spiritual paranoia and repressed desire and dishonest
laughter. The turkey comes out dry. There is not enough pie for Dubya.
Rumsfeld slurps his scotch, drunkenly. Dick eyes the dark thigh meat. Condi
has to pee. There is little to be thankful for, inside this room. 

 

Outside, however, among the nation's awakening throngs, gratitude and hope
are beginning to swell and grow anew. Only three years left. It's long but
not that long. Every person in that gloomy room will be gone. History.
Nothing left but an ugly stain, oily residue, scar tissue. The room will be
refreshed. The turkey will be moist. There will be more cranberry sauce.
This dark, warmongering chapter will finally end. Pie all around. 

 

It is not, the world realizes, too early to be thankful for that.

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