“Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest!”

The Head of the Ar-Busto Martyr’s Brigade is not happy.


Outside the HungOverlook Hotel, an ominous presence lurks…



…and will not go away.

She has no spouse in the CIA, so Plaming her won’t work. (Kudos to MoDo for the Judo.)

She isn’t running for anything, so the Swift Boat Dragoons are useless.

Maybe a call to G. Gordon…but there are some things even Gordo won’t do.

If Dear Leader were a reader, or a thinker, or a historian, or a teacher or anything but the hollowed-out, intellectually AWOL delivery system for other people’s perverted agendas he might well shout, “Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest!”, because you know that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

But Dear Leader knows nothing of Becket, or Henry, or History, or Literature, or Religion, or War, so one may speculate that the best he can muster is, perhaps, leaning out the window cranky-Mr. Wilson-style and yelling at the Secret Service, “Can someone please get that bitch off my lawn!”


For comfort, he “clears some brush” with some old friends…



…and when he finishes that “brush” he orders another, but finds no solace there.


Cheney is always helpful, and he always keeps a little “brush” handy…

…but his suggestion for everything –- “Invade. Invade and kill every motherfucker you see. Invade, and take every motherfucking thing that isn’t nailed down. Invade, and stick the motherfucking taxpayers with the bill” -– doesn’t seem to be too viable here.



During a rousing game of “Mine’s Bigger” down in the HungOverlook’s potty…


…Rove suggests maybe she’s a lesbo. Or maybe her kid was a fag. Maybe Novak can run a column or two before his implants turn completely to jelly, or perhaps this is more Fred Phelps’ line of country.

But Rove alas, is half-hearted these days.

That frisky delight he normally exudes at the thought of ripping apart a decent, honorable human being and serving them up to his Dark Lord on the White House China is dampened by thought of pending indictments for treason.


And Jenna and Not-Jenna’s antics aren’t exactly helping things either.


In fact, they’re getting kinda creepy.


All while the Missus grows ever more concerned that her man is spending more and more time hiding from a job he just spent 100 million dollars to snag.

She reads from his file marked “Top Sekrit: All Werk and no Play meks George a dull boy.”

She finds thousands of hand-written notes like this one:

“Dear Vise Preznit Dick.

Pleese excuse George from werk 2day.
He has werked 2 hard aready and has to rest up sum so he can werk hard agin.

Sined,

Georges Mommy”

In all the land, are there no bald-headed thugs left to smooch?

Can’t a President perhaps award Himself a Presidential Medal of Freedom? Like that Napoleon fella did with that Crown dealy?

Having tried liquor, slime and bloodshed what else can put that ol’ smile back on his face?

What else can lighten the burden of his Hero’s Heart?

What remains to help President Personal Responsibility continue to dodge taking ANY Personal Responsibility for what he has done?

Hey, how ‘bout a huge, grotesquely tasteless distraction!

With a Jug Band!

Because, lemme tell ya, “Nothing Honors the Dead like an Old-Fashioned Hoedown”.


Boy Howdy Yes...and the barefoot boy with cheek of tan returns once more:

"...Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;"

Or, in other words...


Heeeere’s Smirky!


And a peace and silence as profound as the grave once again returns to the HungOverlook Hotel.