I almost felt sorry for you. Almost. If only you weren’t such a clueless warmonger. Oh, and by the way, when can we expect the Bush twins to enlist in the military? Or Jeb’s kids? They are certainly of age. Jeb’s youngest son is old enough to get arrested for drunken disorderly and resisting cops in Austin, Texas. And the daughter, the drug addict? The one who writes fakes prescription for Xanax *yawn* of all things? Surely, she would detox in Iraq, right?

Your comment right after the hurricane, “You’re doing a heck of a job, Brownie,” to that dickless fucking wonder Michael Brown (former head of FEMA, who probably caused more deaths than Hurricane Katrina), really was the beginning of the end for you.

So it was with evil glee I saw you in a place far, far away trying to escape America and all those pesky reporters with their bothersome questions about: Iraq, the rising U.S. death toll, Tom Delay, Joseph Wilson, his CIA wife, Scooter Libby, Karl Rove, your sneaky VP, your shockingly low approval polls, gas prices, and especially my new hero—Congressman John Murtha; and there you were, trying to open the door to get out of the press room. But couldn’t. It was locked. It was priceless. It was telling. It was karma.

Rare is it to see such unabashed panic on a politician’s face. Really something out of Saturday Night Live, it was just THAT good. Your reply was so telling too, “I’m trying to escape.” Yeah, well, tell us something we don’t know.