Will Durst (56)
Does anybody know what happened to the center? I remember hearing about it in the old days, but it seems to have disappeared like a wisp of mist in a solar wind. All anybody talks about is the left and the right. We're so polarized these days, I'm surprised our compasses still work. They should be stuck on due daft. To paraphrase Ronald Reagan speaking about the Democratic Party: I didn't leave the center, the center left me. And you can blame Uncle Ron for triggering the seismic shift that shoved the center to the right.
Who can tell what motivates the President these days? Maybe the commutation of Scooter Libby is meant to demonstrate his latent in-chargity. That he's relevant, dammit! That not only can he be the decider, but he also has the skills to be the commuter as well. With an approval rating lower than a drunk IRS agent wearing pinstripes behind the Red Sox dugout at Fenway, he probably wouldn't mind commuting himself, to and from the comfort of Crawford, Texas, four or seven days a week. Could become the First Telecommuting Chief Executive. "I'm looking forward to Friday, that's ‘No Pants Day.'" Bet Laura and the twins would prefer that. Dick too, just to clear the decks for some of the trickier bits.
Proving his pertinence required George Bush to set a convicted partisan felon free as the proverbial bird. Though the identity of what kind of bird that phrase is intended to signify has been shrouded by the mists of time; it is safe to say, it sure ain't no jailbird, because due to Dubyah's opportune intervention, Cheney's former chief of staff served less time than a spitballing junior-high study-hall miscreant sent to honors detention in the cafeteria.
Four Star General David Petraeus spoke of George Bush's vaunted troop surge as having unintended consequences, i.e., the squirts. And no, I'm not kidding. By putting pressure on targeted segments of the bad guys, we have caused them to, and I quote, "squirt out of Baghdad." That's right. We squeeze. They squirt. Those darn squirters. Clever little squirters they. Wonder if they dart as well. Darting squirters; that would be something to see. Definitely worth a two-drink minimum.
We members of the CCJU; the Comics, Clowns & Jesters Union, can currently be found moping around, wearing an excess of black, plunged into a state of funk that can only be called "pre-mourning" as we anticipate the end of what will surely be known as the Golden Era of political humor. The reign of George W Bush is nearing an end. Destined to go down in history as the worst President EVER, and that includes William Henry Harrison, the guy who gave a three-hour inaugural speech in the rain, caught pneumonia, and served 30 days supine in a sick bed until becoming the first president to die in office.
When a ton of crap is dumped from way high above into the lake of our lives, we rarely worry about the tiny arcing droplets splashing on our face mainly because we're too busy keeping our boats afloat and our breathing apparatuses above water, but I would like to spotlight a seemingly insignificant drop of moisture pooling at the end of our nose that is destined to affect us for the rest of our natural born days. Namely: the name George. Which is getting such a bad rap these days, it will soon qualify for 12 step status. "Hi, my name's George and I'm a George." "Hi George."
I'm a little worried about the Republicans. I am. My job is to mock and scoff and taunt; these days it's almost too easy. I was taught you don't kick people when they're down, which probably qualifies me as a weenie or a wuss in their book. Hence the famous retractable 8 penny serrated hobnails in the toes of Karl Rove's boots. But lately to imply they're a tad disorganized is like musing Don Imus might not be first choice to play Santa at the 2007 CBS Christmas Party. Not only isn't this your father's Republican Party, but also it's not even George Bush's father's Republican Party any more. You could go so far as to say that this Republican Party is mighty disconnected from the Republic and it sure ain't no party.
The World Series of Presidential politics may be 19 months down the road, but the players are already lacing up their cleats and playing pepper with fungo bats on the sandlots of Iowa and New Hampshire.