Former President George W. Bush was so excited by the invitation to the unveiling at Mount Rushmore that he wore his best Air Force flight suit. You would have thought he had learned better by now.
There were the speeches, the droning, interminable speeches about how what was about to be unveiled was a fitting monument to Bush’ Presidential legacy. The applause from the hand-picked crowd was substantial. Bush basked in the glow of the (Karl Rove manufactured) love.
Then, the tarp was pulled off Mount Rushmore. Bush looked at the monument to four former Presidents. Then frowned. Then squinted and looked closer. Then, he turned to The Architect, who was beaming, and asked with the uncomfortable chuckle that was his trademark, “Where am I?”
“You’re there,” The Architect stated. “Look at…look at Lincoln’s face.”
Bush looked at Lincoln’s face. Hard. He looked to either side of Lincoln’s face. Above it. Below it. With increasing unease, he looked at it again. “I don’t see it,” Bush finally had to admit. He did so in a low voice, hoping the assembled journalists wouldn’t hear.
The Architect gave Bush a pair of binoculars. “Focus on Lincoln’s face,” he advised the former President.
Bush took the binoculars with a grunt and looked at Lincoln’s face through them. A few seconds later, he said: “I don’t see myself, but Abraham Lincoln seems to have a boil on his nose. See, I don’t remember Abraham Lincoln having a boil on his nose. It’s not in any of his photogra –” Laura shook her head. “I mean, it’s not in any of his portraits.”
Uncomfortably, The Architect took the binoculars from Bush and handed him a small telescope. Bush, sensing what was about to happen, took it stiffly and focused on Lincoln’s face carved into Mount Rushmore. It only took a couple of seconds before Bush threw the telescope to the ground and growled, “You mean to tell me that my likeness is a boil on Abraham Lincoln’s nose?!”
“We’re quite a distance from the monument,” The Architect told him. “Your bust is actually much larger than it appears from here.”
“Oh,” Bush blustered, “so I’m actually a bigger boil on the nose of Lincoln than I look?”
“Boil is such a…harsh way of putting it,” The Architect demurred. “You always compared yourself to Lincoln – you should think of this as an extension of your connection to the President who made this country great.”
“You mean,” Bush sneered, “my connection to Abraham Lincoln is to be a blemish on his face?” His concern for his image with the press had completely disappeared. Laura motioning vigourously with her head did not remind him of it.
The Architect held up a placating hand. “Look,” he said, “you always believed in smaller government, right?”
“Riiiiiight,” Bush hesitantly responded.
“Can you not see this as an expression of your fundamental principles?” The Architect asked.
“No,” Bush replied, “I cannot. See, this, this makes me look like a pygmy. A pygmy President. Like some tribe in some foreign country sprinkled some kind of pygmy dust on my head and said something in one of them foreign languages that they speak over there. People will take one look at this and think of me as a pygmy president. What the hell kind of legacy is that?”
“Well,” The Architect took a deep breath, “if legacy is your main concern, then this is a perfect expression of it.”
“You think?” Bush scoffed.
“Absolutely. Despite being for smaller government, you managed to increase the national debt so much that you essentially bankrupted the country. When I was given this commission, I was told to make it work on a materials budget of $1,007.32. How do you expect me to do something monumental on $1,007.32? Do you know how much rock you can buy for $1,007.32?”
“Not much, I expect,” Bush allowed.
“Well, exactly,” The Architect told the former President. “Still, it could have been worse.”
“How could it possibly have been worse?” Bush asked.
The Architect, knowing that he would never get a commission from another Republican administration, threw caution to the wind and said, “You could have been a boil on Abraham Lincoln’s other end.”