What God Really Told Bush
Apparently, it wasn't just "invade Iraq and Afghanistan in my name." A special report
- By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist
Scene: White House private residence, night, not long ago. President Bush present in his most favoritest guns 'n' bunnies PJs. Laura asleep, knocked out by a combination of too much Good Housekeeping and excessive hair-spray fumes. Suddenly, a burst of black smoke. A deep, resonant voice speaks:
"Psst! George! God here, taking a break from supervising the well-being of eight billion troubled souls along with infinite galaxies of unimaginable vastness to speak with you directly one more time because, well, you're special, aren't you, George? Yes you are! Yes you are! OK, stop giggling. I have more commands. Get off the damn hobbyhorse, George, and get a pen and a notepad. No, not a crayon. I don't care if blue is your favori-- George! Get a pen! OK? Good. Here we go:
"As you know, I'm not quite what everyone thinks. I am not all benevolence and love and light. In fact, I have a downright dark side, mean and nasty and cunning, and I want you, George, to continue to be my special right-hand man. My special little guy. In fact, you shall help enact my wrath, Dubya. Doesn't that sound fun?
"There are three things I love, George: war, revenge, suffering. Oh, and smiting the heathens. OK, four things. And kickboxing. Five things. There are five things I love, Dubya. You with me? And you and your demon monkeys are enacting the first four admirably, George. Don't be shy, go ahead and tell those Palestinian officials you were commanded by God to 'restore peace' in the Middle East by bombing nearly defenseless, pip-squeak Iraq and Afghanistan to smithereens. They love that stuff.
"But let's put the delicious war stuff aside for a moment. I need to round out my oeuvre. Here's the plan: I'm gonna wreak some major havoc on one of your poorest, most racially mixed, underfunded cities by hurling a massive hurricane at them, flooding the place and killing hundreds of poor people you don't even know exist because you thought they all lived somewhere in Africa. It's all right, the biggest city, New Orleans, will be full of Kerry-loving Democrats. Yeah, I thought you'd like that.
"Here's where you come in, George: When those rains come, I want you to sit back for a few days, stay in the hammock in Crawford, have a lemonade, OK? Let those dead bodies float around New Orleans like it was some remote village in Nigeria. Then look completely baffled when everyone blames you for your administration's miserable response. You'll take some flak for it, but did I ever say serving me would be easy? Besides, people need to know I'm still here, still angry, getting angrier. Don't worry, I'll make it up to you. How does eternal damnati-- er, blessed sainthood sound? Good.
"OK, moving on. I have a secret, George. Here it is: I hate this me-forsaken planet. All this so-called beauty, nature and the magic of science and the poetry of cells -- you know what Earth is to me? High maintenance, that's what. A massive pain in my hallowed butt. Growing all that food, blowing the wind, churning the oceans -- it's exhausting. Plus my energy bills are skyrocketing. Heating India and Turkey cost me 87 trillion last month alone. What am I, made of money? Well yes, of course I am. But no matter. I'm sick of it.
"Here's the plan, George: I want you to despoil, OK? Rivers and air and lakes, wildlife preserves and pristine forests and salmon runs and bird sanctuaries. Screw 'em, Dubya. Screw 'em all. I want you to be the worst environmental president in 50 years, OK? Hell, make it 100. I want you to roll back more environmental protections and do more damage to the place in eight months than my bitch Ronnie Reagan did in eight years. Rape the joint clean. Sell it all off to your cronies in big industry and help me hasten Armageddon. Deal? Here's the truth, Dubya: Earth's a giant liver-flavored Kong toy and you're a rabid terrier. Now, go get it, boy!
"Damn kids these days. Who needs so many? Why not send tens of thousands of them off to fight your two brutal, unwinnable wars? Why not Vietnam 2.0? Hell yes! Because if there's one thing I love more than useless wars, George, it's thousands of mutilated soldiers coming home in body bags, all draped in the pretty American flag. Twenty-one gun salute! For God and country! Righteous.
"Speaking of uppity kids, I know my own brat Jesus came down here once and mumbled some flower-child gibberish about turning the other cheek and not killing anyone and doing unto others as you would have them do unto you and yadda-yadda-yadda. That's what happens when you give the kids the car keys and an unsupervised weekend, am I right? It's all complete bupkes, but I don't have to tell you that, now do I?
"So here's what I want you to do, George. I want your demoralized military shlubs to capture as many swarthy types as possible, whenever they raid an Iraqi home or school or Afghan farm, and throw them all straight into a military prison and let 'em rot and wait for months, years for a fair hearing. Got it?
"Strip them naked! Stick electrodes on their genitals! Smear menstrual blood on their faces! Beat 'em senseless! I don't care if they're innocent. I sayeth unto you, innocence is overrated. Rape the boys, too. Then cover it all up and blame it all on a poor, dim-witted female soldier from Kentucky and shove her into prison for three years while all the honchos who sanctioned the torture (hi, Rummy!) merely smirk and walk away. God sayeth unto you all, rock on!
"I know, everyone says I'm made of pure love. Ha. Truth is, I'm made of aluminum chloride and coal cinders and something I'm not quite sure about but I think might be MSG. Oh yeah, and money. Fifties, mostly.
"I gotta run, George. But rest assured, I'll be back soon, with more ideas. But there's one more thing you need to know, one thing you absolutely cannot forget. Remember our Super Triple Secret, George? Pinky swear? Spit handshake? Atta boy.
"Here it is: We both know who I really am, don't we? I know you secretly admire my scaly red flesh, my shining black eyes, these bitchin' horns, the breath worse than Rove's after his morning meal of seared panda hearts. Of course you know the real God is more than a little disgusted by you and your administration, right?
"Well, screw her. Typical woman, all benevolent and chthonic and compassionate. We know who's really in charge of your nasty administration, don't we, Dubya? Damned right. And I mean that literally. Keep your hands in the fire, if you know what I mean. Now c'mere and give me a hot tongue kiss. Sorry about charring the carpet. Sweet dreams."
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Mark Morford's Notes & Errata column appears every Wednesday and Friday on SF Gate and in the Datebook section of the SF Chronicle. To get on the e-mail list for this column, please click here and remove one article of clothing. Mark's column also has an RSS feed and an archive of past columns, which includes a tiny photo of Mark probably insufficient for you to recognize him in the street and give him gifts.
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