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There seems to be some giant wall between me and even a smidgeon of comity toward "our friends across the aisle." Wish I could feel differently about this, I really do. It`s not in my nature to hold a grudge or seek revenge, but deep inside is a feeling of disturbing betrayal. I know treachery when I see it, that no amount of brand new pleasantries can cover up.
George Bush is like an armed robber who finds God the instant he gets caught. No repetition of Bush`s " The election is over now" will make me forget Tammy Duckworth being called a "cut and runner" or anti-war Democrats being accused of siding with "the enemy" or Harold Ford being enticed by a white bimbo. I won`t soon forget "Macacca" or the equally offensive "Welcome to America."
I`m remembering how Congressional Democrats had to beg for a hearing room and how soldiers in Iraq had to share their bulletproof vests with their buddies. To this day, I`m horrified over the memory of one of the earliest casualties of the Iraq invasion, young Ali, with his terrible burns, his blown off arms, his dead parents and dead sibling. Alone and suffering unimaginable pain all because George Bush and his enablers lied us into a war. I think of that little boy nearly every day.
It wasn`t the back room deals over bridges to nowhere that got to me, it was the back room deals over allowing heinous torture tactics....all the time telling Americans, "We don`t torture." It was Cheney secretly meeting with oil executives to craft our "energy policy" and Cheney secretly parceling out the very Iraqi oilfield tracts he had no business overseeing. It was that putrid deal with drug companies, the one that didn`t allow government agents to negotiate for lower drug prices. It was Hurricane Katrina and all her pitiful victims languishing in neck-deep water while the president strummed his new guitar and ordered a fresh, crisp shirt. It`s the military families bearing up under not one deployment, but two, three and four while Barco-Lounger chickenhawks screamed for more blood. It was the daily reminders of the "robust" economy while zillions of Americans worried over their last unemployment checks. It was the steel kworkers too proud to be idle but too realistic to hope. It was the mile-long line of lettuce pickers, bent in the hot sun while Congress awarded themselves raise after raise after raise. It was Cindy Sheehan`s raw pain draining into that ditch...connected to the road...connected to the ranch...connected to her dead son. A president, not one for personal sacrifice, who couldn`t even extend a hand of support. It was those secret caskets stuffed into cargo planes, out of sight and out of mind enough that we`d all go shopping. It was the bomb talk, the killer talk, the swagger, the bellicose rantings, the puffed up chests. Like an old John Wayne movie, freshly introduced at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue with a cast of actors, choreographers, graphic designers, focus groups, image makers, consultants and more cold cash then you could even count. A virtual cesspool.
Here`s my take. George Bush is worried about one thing....his legacy. He`ll use every trick in the book to gloss over the fact that he`s a shallow, miserable failure who nearly destroyed this country and every principle it stands for. I won`t be forgetting that anytime soon.
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