One From the Spleen

He is blog proof.

He is ballot proof.

He has the flexibility of an I-beam combined with the IQ of a houseplant, and I am finding it increasingly difficult to keep shaking my tiny little fist, employing whatever is left of my wits and my wit to point out that not only is the emperor naked, but that his new clothes come with two pair of pants.

Most recently, appearing on PBS (short for Presidential Bull Shit), when asked if he had been less than honest with the American people, Mr. Bush, obviously trying to be as helpful as possible, replied: "On what issue?"

Even more recently, he has backed down on the wartime powers that he managed to pinch for himself - a pretty neat accomplishment considering he's spent a total of 365 days -- one entire year of his term in office so far -- on vacation.

What good being one more person fighting for the attention of the choir? What good being part of the daisy chain that daily bites each others' nails down to the quick?

Wordplay only tends to trivialize the planetary despair he has drummed up, this despot who, in Swiftian reversal, has become the Lilliputian leader of a land once considered a giant among nations; this tyrant who treats blood-soaked Baghdad as some sort of an away game.

Writing jokes about him has become far too easy. This messianic miscreant is much too convenient a straight line -- a line that is surely leading him -- a whole lot of dutifully blogging stragglers in tow -- even further into a hell which we all stood by and watched him create, while we continued to fire our funny bullets at him.