I have a friend who likes American President George Dubya Bush. No matter what Bush says or does, MF (My Friend – whatever else you may have been thinking, you should be ashamed of yourself) just smiles and says, “Yeah, but he’s just a regular guy, you know? The Sort of guy you wouldn’t mind going fishing with, or just hanging out and goofing around. With.”
Oh, really? I wonder what would happen if MF actually was invited to go fishing with the President. I wonder…
MF shows up at a relatively deserted patch of river bank at the appointed time. He waves at the President, who is sitting on a lawn chair on the river bank; he has started fishing on his own. Before the President can even notice him, four men in identical black suits surround MF and, listening intently to bits of plastic in their ears, hustle him into a nearby van, where he is stripped and subjected to a full body cavity search.
Pronounced clean, MF tenderly makes his way tot he shore and picks up a fishing rod. “Glad you could make it,” the President greets him.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stand,” MF replies, casting his line into the water.
The President chuckles. “Boys a little rough on you, hunh? I wouldn’t worry too much if I was you, Squiffy – you’ll get used to it.”
“Squiffy?”
“That’s your nickname.”
“No, it’s not. My nickname is -“
The President’s eyes harden. “Squiffy. AKA: Squifferino, The Squiffmeister and St. Squiffard of Squiffleville. Sorry, son, but I make up the nicknames around here. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” The President settles comfortably into his lawn chair, a pole held lazily in one hand. “This is the life,” he says. “The sun. The spray of water on your face. The non-alcoholic beer. Catching that seven pound wide-mouthed bass…”
MF looks around the empty river bank, confused. “We, uhh, haven’t caught anything yet,” he reluctantly points out.
Paul Wolfowitz sticks his head into the scene. “Everybody exaggerates their catch when they go fishing. The important thing is that the afternoon’s fishing trip is considered a success,” he says, then withdraws.
A representative of Donald Rumsfeld’s intelligence cabal sticks his head into the scene. “The British run a market just down the lane a ways. I’m sure they would be happy to supply us with fish heads as evidence of the President’s statement about his catch,” he says, then withdraws.
A right wing American television pundit (if that term hasn’t become totally redundant) sticks his head into the scene. “Don’t mind what he says. That’s just the President being the President, and what are you gonna do? You gotta love him,” he says, then withdraws.
“You were saying, Squiffy?” the President asks.
“This is, uhh, the life,” MF replies. “It’s great.”
“Isn’t it, though?” the President sleepily beams.
Time passes, as it will on lazy afternoons where the only sounds that can be heard are the buzzing of insects and the roar of security helicopters flying overhead. The President has a serene look on his face, and MF can well believe that he is not concerned with the crises he must face on a daily basis, that, in fact, he is not thinking about anything at all.
Then, another man in black (or, maybe one of the men in black MF has already encountered – who can tell?) walks up to the President and whispers something in his ear.
“Kill the fucking son of a bitch!” the President shouts in response. “I don’t care what it takes! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! Fucker’s making me look like an idiot – and I don’t like looking like an idiot! Am I being clear? Kill the fucker! KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”
The man in black tactfully withdraws as the President wipes a bit of spittle off his chin. Then, he turns to MF and says, “Perfect day for it, isn’t it?” MF, not knowing if the President is referring to fishing, smiles weakly.
Yep, it’s just as my friend thought. The President is a regular guy. Who just happens to control the largest military machine the world has ever seen. I’ve got to go back to my friend and ask him why he thinks this is a good thing.