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Monday, June 21, 2010

We Have Met the Enemy

Dear Mr. President,
Just checking in to see if you are having fun yet? I just came up from the basement where I have been patching leaks that sprung up during last year’s deluges. Boy oh boy, it’s a job pretty much like yours: as soon as I think I have a problem solved, another storm comes along to reveal some more troubles. Now, sir, I got to confess, I am not really all that sorry for you. After all, you are the one who hired all the sub-morons that are supposed to be keeping you out of trouble. Yep, every day one or the other does something really just STOOOOPID (no wonder you can’t stop smoking) - besides I tried and tried to get you to hire me, but you wouldn’t. I admitted right up front most of my flaws, bad-temper, mood drugs, candy fetish, cynicism, etc. and with that full disclosure also tried to ensure my hiring by promising to come on in and kick some ass, take a long list of names, political-correctness be damned. But OOOU-NOOO, you gots to have boys and girls who are politically savvy. Well, damn, looks like to me that you could just about send the whole peck of them on back home, off to teach at Harvard, or onto that great lobbying job for which they have been drooling all along. You could just hunker on down where Cheney used to hide and send in an occasional video to YouTube about how you and the family are doing. It’s a real shame when a complete buffoon like Rust Limpbag is a better front man for a political party than any one on your entire dip-shit staff. Hard being just you ain’t it?

Heck, even your gal, Hilary, has stirred up a nest of paper wasps with her comments about your suing Arizona. Shoot anyone knows you should just leave Arizona alone and see what is going on because somebody has got to do something about illegal folks using up services. And your bunch sure hasn’t offered much direction there. Of course, as usual, the ignoring of the problem for 20 plus years by your political predecessors has only made that fire hotter, don’t you think. Heck, everybody down at Miracle Maids knows that if you sweep stuff under a carpet long enough, you are bound to trip over the lump. Be danged if we can’t run off to fight some war or another before we ever solve our own lower GI problems here, if you get my drift. Sure, I understand that people who are citizens don’t want to be profiled, stopped unfairly, picked on, etc. But how about letting Arizona sort that out- most likely it will screw it up on its own-without Eric Holder’s help. Boy oh boy, sir, what’s Holder going to do now, declare that he wasn’t really going to sue Arizona, that Hilary didn’t really screw up, or that video is really a republican dirty-trick (I would not put that past the bunch of corporation-loving snakes, but I do not think so, this time)? God, are your people up there in the White House stooooopid, or what?

And this mess in the Gulf, your stupefied staff sure helped you get out front on that one, didn’t it? Even the dumbest know that when some sort of poo hits the circulator, the one in charge is supposed to rush on down and wring hands and tell everyone that stuff will be fixed real quick. Pretty funny isn’t? No one in your bunch has a clue how to fix this one, nor does the oil industry- hell they can’t even figure how much oil is bubbling out. If you had me on the job I would have told you to just go on the TV and say, “We have a mess, a result of corporate avarice and government incompetence, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it but the republicans will fix it next term.” Most folks would have rolled right on back over to take a nap, thinking, “SO, WHERE’S THE NEWS THERE?” Or, you could have had Robert Gibbs turn the reporting over to FUX News; they would have got it right.

In addition to the sheer boneheadedness of your staff, it is real confusing too because of the paradoxes presented. Take the Katrina deal: some say that the Gulf States didn’t get the proper help; some say if people are stupid enough to live in a hurricane zone then they have to clean up after themselves. Some say if you choose to live in a bowl. Like New Orleans, you should not be surprised when it fills up during a flood. Some say it was God that done it, what with all the sinful shenanigans going on in New Orleans, and all. And, Mr. President, I live in Delaware, you know. Hmph, the BP-f-up is pretty much the same. Don’t you think? Folks there all along the Gulf Coast wanted the oil businesses out there drilling so that they would have more somebodies to sell more shrimp too, more crabs too, more gambling parlors too. But now that they got a predictable disaster out of what they wanted, they want you to come on down and hep-‘em-out. Pretty amazing ain’t, Mr. President. If you don’t go, you get yelled at, if you do go, another bunch yells at you. (One of my buddies wants you to drop by every accident that happens in the entire US. Of course, you have to forgive her; she’s the one who doesn’t realize that the Coast Guard IS the fucking government.) You work out a deal to get some of BP’s money on the table, the republicans call it a shake down. You call a moratorium on deep-water drilling because one bunch is yelling about checking the safety of the rigs (now that the oil is out of the sump and still roiling) and another bunch is yelling that you are crippling a perfectly good oil industry, forfreakingever. AND Big Oil has hired a jillion barrels of lobbyists to do some more yelling about how stupid you are. And every, crawdad-sucking, hush puppy-chomping, okra-eating, sag-jowled politician from down there is going to make some political corn pone of your inadequacies. Your fault, your fault, your fault. Told you to send it all back to the republicans; told you to hire me to piss more folks off so that it would take some heat off you. Problems from every direction are gnawing, like a bunch of carpenter bees, into you from every direction. Are you having fun yet? Bet Tony Hayward had more fun out on his yacht this weekend than you did.

Well, I think the paint has dried, and it is time for me to add another coat- you have a groovy week, you hear.

Title courtesy of Pogo

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