As I mentioned earlier, the WaPo‘s page one story about Bush at “the nadir of his presidency” describes him as “a president who has endured the most drastic political collapse in a generation” who’s seeking answers to questions like: “Why does the rest of the world seem to hate America? Or is it just me they hate?”
I totally believe that. Yup. I completely and without reservation believe that a president who doesn’t give a flying fuck that nearly three-quarters of his own country don’t approve of the job he’s doing is spending his time waxing philosophical about whether the world hates America or its leader. Sure.
After setting the stage for how Bush is delving into tough existential questions about his presidency, the article then goes on to say how he’s isolated, lonely, stressed, defeated, blah blah blah. His pal Rep. K. Michael Conaway (R-Tex.) comments that he looks rode hard. “It’s a marked difference in his physical appearance. It’s an incredibly heavy load. When you ask men and women to take risks, to send them into war knowing they might not come home, that’s got to be an incredible burden to have on your shoulders.” (Yeah. We know, we know. No one suffers more than the president and first lady do.) It’s been a “parade of setbacks” for Bush, whose second term has seen “an unyielding sequence of bad news” about everything from Katrina to the failed immigration bill. (Yep, those are equal.) “No modern president has experienced such a sustained rejection by the American public” as has Bush, who “has virtually given up on winning converts while in office and instead is counting on vindication after he is dead.” But, as always, “his faith is very strong.”
Can’t you just feel all the besiegement and isolation, Shakers?
Of course, Bush is a douchy halfwit with all the intellectual and emotional capacities of a broken shoehorn, so, despite the overwhelming besiegement and isolation (not to mention the personal responsibility for a catastrophic failure of a war and thousands upon thousands of deaths) which might cripple any functional adult person with two brain cells knocking together and the merest shadow of conscience, he’s still as happy-go-lucky as ever. Oh, pardon me: He’s at ease.
Henry Kissinger, in fact, “find[s] him serene,” and his old friend Conaway notes that Bush “does a very good job of keeping out the extreme things in his life,” which is precisely the sort of diligent self-protection one wants in a president. I’d hate to think the problems of the country or the world were affecting his delicate sensibilities. Better yet, Conaway assures us, “He doesn’t watch Leno and Letterman. He doesn’t spend a lot of time exposing himself to that sort of stuff. He has a terrific knack of not looking through the rearview mirror.” Oh, good. It’s about time we had a president who rejected all that pussy crap like learning from hindsight.
Bush does not come across like a man lamenting his plight. In public and in private, according to intimates, he exhibits an inexorable upbeat energy that defies the political storms. Even when he convenes philosophical discussions with scholars, he avoids second-guessing his actions. He still acts as if he were master of the universe, even if the rest of Washington no longer sees him that way.
“You don’t get any feeling of somebody crouching down in the bunker,” said Irwin M. Stelzer, a senior fellow at the Hudson Institute who was part of one group of scholars who met with Bush. “This is either extraordinary self-confidence or out of touch with reality. I can’t tell you which.”
Or, as a third possibility, perhaps we’re just glimpsing the soullessness of a fucking moron. Which some of us noticed back in 2000, while the media gushed about what fun he’d be to have a beer with, yeehaw. Never mind that in the “Mr. Brady died of AIDS” sort of way in which reality tends to operate so we can separate fact from fiction, Bush is a dry alcoholic, who can’t drink beer with anyone at all.
He’s the biggest prank ever played on America. No wonder he’s still yukking it up.