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Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Who better to slam the door than The Rude Pundit?
Posted by Jill | 6:40 AM
As we watch George W. Bush, this small, venal little man, this dry drunk, this man-behind-the-curtain whom all to many saw as The Great and Powerful Oz for far too long, walk into the sunset, it would be tempting to take the high road and figure that we are well rid of him, so let's just sit back and have another toke of what's going on even at 6:30 in the morning on the Mall in Washington, DC.

Naah. Let's not. Let's let TRP have his say:

There’s one final myth about this President that the Rude Pundit would like to put to rest: George W. Bush is not a man you would want to have a beer with. No, not because if you saw him in a bar, you'd react like you had gone on the sex offender registry in Dallas and discovering that a guy who fucked babies in his basement was now living in the downstairs apartment. It's that, despite any feints at finding him charming, he is not, in his soul, a kind or decent person.

Check out this exchange from his interview with Larry King the other night:
KING: Did you read any of Obama's books?

G. BUSH: No.

KING: I want to get to something --

G. BUSH: Trying to figure out this line of questioning?

KING: Well, I have been told --

G. BUSH: My favorite color is blue and I love enchiladas.

Watching Bush beat up on a 400 year-old man for not getting to the point is like watching a teenager drown kittens for being cute. The Rude Pundit doesn't drink with irredeemable dickheads, with self-righteous balls of fuck who think their very existence demands your respect and attention, with privileged cockmongers who can't manage even a moment of self-awareness.

And he will not drink with crazed, mad sons of bitches who can't be reasoned with when they're half a fifth in the bag, the kind of angry drunk who'll fight you for stepping on his shoes, who'll show up at your house with a group of shithead drunk friends, kick your dog, try to finger your wife's asshole, break your lamps while falling into your houseplants, shit on your front yard, set your porch on fire trying to light your barbecue, puke in your fishtank, read your diary to your whole family, and then demand that you give him a bed so he can just sleep it off, but when you won't, he threatens to cut your kids' throats and jack off in the wounds. Fuck him. He can drink alone for all eternity.


Amen.

(h/t)

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