Did it really happen?
Did I dream it?
Did the lame duck duck, or did I imagine it?
Have I finally lost each and every one of my marbles, once and for all?
Earlier today, I could swear that I saw Bush in Baghdad, surreal enough certainly, but then it looked an awful lot like a journalist with an Iraqi television network threw his shoes at Bush. Just tossed them right at him! Bush ducked, so may we safely say, please somebody, that at least for that particular nanosecond, the insulated, inoculated-against-reality Bush, knew that someone somewhere was displeased with him? That he had received a very personal, very serious Muslim insult? I doubt it registered, nothing does, but I can honestly say that for me, it was one of maybe a handful of moments during the Bush Imperial Presidency, The Interminable Reign of the Super Doofus, that I could watch him on television without wanting to shriek, pull every hair out of my head or move to Sweden immediately.
Look, an economics genius I'm not, in fact, if I've ever managed to actually balance my checkbook, I'm sure it was quite by accident, like the faulty clock that's right twice a day no matter what.
But have we not perhaps stumbled upon some glimmer of hope here economically? For Wall Street, the auto industry, me, you and everyone else who is hurting? A different type of stimulus package, a bailout with some teeth to it?
What if we could all throw our shoes at Bush? At Cheney? At Condi, Rummy, Wolfie, hell, let's throw in Blago, Howdy Doody's doppelgänger, while we're at it, just for a real treat. I'd pay to do it, wouldn't you? And not those mushy, soft, running shoes in the back of your closet, from when Reagan was president, the ones that have lost their oomph. Ladies, I am talking about your highest-heeled, priciest shoes. The shoes so pointy and so high, that when you close your eyes in them, you can swear you're somewhere in the vicinity of the Jungfrau, the air is so thin, so rarified.
Let's face it, the guy should be rotting in prison for the rest of his days. Instead, he'll get to play J.R. Ewing with Miss Ellie, in Dallas, so what about having a few sabots and saboteurs injected into the scenario?
It's time to pull together. Quick! Snatch back your Manolo sling-backs, steamy Charles Jourdan pumps, your Prada Satin d'Orsays and your favorite Christian Louboutin Feather Ankle-Wraps from eBay. Come on, you'll never be able to sell them now anyway, and your ankles, your spinal column and your poor squeezed-in tootsies will thank you.
Step right up! Me, I'm woefully unemployed, but I'll gladly take my prized Nine Wests, broken and battered and reconditioned about 187 times, and do the deed.
So be patriotic. Fling a shoe and save your country's economy! The lines will form from here to the moon. Just news of this will revive the entire tourism industry because everyone from everywhere, all over the globe and beyond, will all want to grab a plane, come here and hurl a shoe, toss a stiletto or two at Bush & Company. World leaders and their wives will surely line up with special alacrity and who knows, Carla Bruni's shoes alone might be the boost we're looking for. In any case, the coffers will fill so swiftly that before we know it, the country will be back on its economic feet with money to spare. And let's face it, we can't really stand in heels on the unemployment lines now, can we?
What better use could there possibly be for all those shoes, now that we can't afford to wear them anywhere anyway? Gather your wing-tips, your loafers, platforms, wedges, ballet flats, peep toes, ratty sneakers, your sandals, spats, Mary Janes, your boots and scruffiest slippers. All shoes accepted, with any and all toe cleavage, no waiting. Operators are standing by!
Of course none of us will have any shoes left to wear to Obama's inauguration parties, but I for one, will be only too happy to go barefoot.