Lonely Are the Lame

10/25/2008 07:23 pm ET | Updated May 25, 2011

George Bush. I feel bad for the old putz.

He seems so alone lately. There's no one to laugh at his jokes, no one to shudder at his warnings. He's rarely in the news and when he is he's immediately pre-empted by that upstart sour-tart from Wasilla (the Crawford of the north) whose taken his game and given it a fresh, even more vapid face. You can see it in his stooped shoulders as he skirts past the Romanesque columns off the West Wing and in the listless readings of his weekend radio addresses. He is a discarded husk of a man. An obsolete tool gathering dust on the old wooden workbench assembled by his great-grandpappy's manservant Clovis in the glory years before Reconstruction. Once the warmth of the spotlight moves off you the air becomes ice cold, and fast.

Believe me, I know.

And who's he gonna cling to for warmth? Dick Cheney? You'd be warmer hugging a cinder block in a bunker.

He's also probably a little ticked because he wasn't asked to the premier of W or that his one wish---that he be portrayed by his childhood hero Pat Butram---wasn't honored, a dream he's had since he was a kid bucking broncos and clearing brush in...Maine.

Even as easy as he's had it---and it's actually really easy being crappy---the job's sure had its way with him. He whiter at the temples, withered in the shanks; his normally smallish simian eyes are smaller, duller. No one wants to banter gaily with him anymore and regardless of the drubbing he and his legacy will take at the hands of historians, he is still one of God's creatures (up there alongside Arm and Hammer and krill) and nonetheless deserving of the sympathy he may have denied the recipients of his own awful policies.

I was urinating in an infamously filthy rock club in New York City many years ago (stay with me here) and I saw on the wall in front of me some hastily scrawled graffiti: "Little dicks need love, too." What I thought then to be a rather vulgar sentiment written by myself only an hour previously now strikes me as a prescient plea for mercy for the man whose own diminutive genitalia had so betrayed him that he was forced into a life of crime and corruption. Here's a president who in all likelihood will never have his profile etched on a coin, never have his speeches performed as audition monologues, never be portrayed by Raymond Massey.

Here is a man who, after the years of tribulation and trial, when he gets up in the morning, looks at himself in the mirror and says: "Man. Gotta trim that ear hair."

So I, for one, will miss him. With a probable Obama presidency, I won't feel so smugly superior. Talk about lonesome.