Georgie Demands to Know:

Who the hell is Virginal Woolf?

Now that shitstorms are appearing on the horizon faster than hurricanes on a warming globe, and packing enough feculent firepower that no amount of Rovification can blind people to the perfidy of the GOP, one might speculate that Cabinet meetings have gotten a bit testy lately up at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

One might speculate as to what Dubya might be going through, now that the Bicycle Chief is belatedly trying to manage the tricky limbo of simultaneously asserting some authority over stronger men (who have always seen him as something between a joke and a codpiece), while at the same time trying to duck any actual responsibility for any of the decision he has made for the last five years.

One might speculate that this becomes problematic when the Real President is seated right next to him, still dreaming of Empire, and not of a mind to listen to Dubya blat on in his Special Class English about shit he has never understood to begin with, and never taken an interest in past filling out the family photo album.

So one might be forgiven for speculating that such an interaction may very well sound like a lightly edited version of a certain Edward Albee play…

Dick: George's biggest problem about the little...about our Iraqi Policy, about our Great Big War, is that deep down in the private-most pit of his gut, he's not completely sure that he’s in charge.

George: My God, you're a wicked Veep.

Dick: And I've told you a million times, baby...I wouldn't invade with anyone else, you know that baby.

George: A deeply wicked person.

Condi (grieving and drunk): Oh my, my, my, my, my...

Karl: I'm not sure that this is a subject for...

George: Dick’s lying. I want you to know that right now. Dick is lying. There are very few things that I am certain of anymore, but the one thing, the one thing in this whole sinking world that I am sure of is my Presidency. My Constitution place in the...creation of our... Al Qaeda fightin’, n00kuler-program-stoppin’...War...

Dick: ...George, our War didn’t have shit all to do with terrorist, or nukes, for that matter. It was for oil and profit and empire. Beautiful, beautiful oil.

George: It was Bin Laden, Dick.

Dick: Oil.

George: Freedom, Dick.

Dick: Oil, you halfwit, dickless bastard.

(Two briefings and five shots later…)

George: You've already sprung a leak about you-know-what...about the chick, the little bugger, our CIA friend. If you start in on this other business, Dick, I warn you.

Dick: I stand warned...

So anyway, I hooked-up with this to S.O.B.

I had it all planned out. First, he'd take over Texas. Then when his Daddy retired, he'd take over the whole country, you know? That was the way it was supposed to be....

Until he watched for a couple of years and started thinking that maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all, that maybe Georgie-boy didn't have the stuff, that maybe he didn't have it in him!...

You see, George didn't have much push, he wasn't particularly aggressive. In fact, he was sort of a flop! A great big, fat, flop!
So here I am, stuck with this flop, this bog in the History Books...

Mr. Drunken Bumblefuck’s Vice-President.

The Shadow C-in-C to Mr. Failed Punkass Loser.

Puppeteer to a raggedy dork.