“There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don’t know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don’t know we don’t know.”
~ Donald Rumsfeld
Wish I’d said that. But seriously, folks….
They had most of us believing that it would be like shooting a school of half-witted fish in a leaky barrel. Clueless George thought that the illegal invasion of the sovereign nation of Iraq would be as seemingly effortless as when his father forced Saddam Hussein’s military out of Kuwait a decade earlier.
They told us that the whole thing wouldn’t cost the US taxpayers a dime, that Iraqi oil revenues would cover the cost of everything. The deceptions were arrogant and—to anyone bothering to pay attention—quite laughable.
For over a year before the incursion, at every opportunity that presented itself, they implied that Saddam was somehow complicit in the catastrophe of September 11, 2001. None of what they told us was true; nothing—not a fucking word of it.
On Saturday, December 30, 2006, Saddam Hussein was hanged for his crimes against humanity.
On Tuesday, April 2, 2013, George Walker Bush, Richard Bruce Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld live in comfortable retirement.
Isn’t life strange?
March 20th of last month marked the tenth anniversary of what was, beyond any shadow of any doubt, the stupidest military blunder since Adolf Hitler invaded Russia in 1941. It was too depressing a milestone to think about at the time. Waging two unnecessary wars simultaneously for so long a period—along with massive tax cuts to a class of people who have more money than they know what to do with—have decimated the economy.
The American Century is over and done with, baby! Anyone who believes otherwise is in jabbering denial.
This is a nation liquidated by incompetence; this is a nation in ruins. Get used to the new reality. But look on the bright side of things: we still have the best reality shows on the planet.
We’re number one! We’re number one!
I feel better already.
The passing of a decade has me thinking about things I would much prefer to put out of my mind; the very image of George W. Bush with any kind of electoral power is not too pleasant a reflection on the American electorate.
It was obvious from the moment he made his first statement as candidate that the guy had the IQ of a bag of rocks. We may console ourselves in the comforting thought that the little thug didn’t really win on Election Day 2000. The Supreme Court—and his brother, Governor Jeb Bush of Florida—stole it for him.
Jeb has every intention of going for the GOP nomination in 2016. He may very well end up as standard bearer three years from now. Don’t you dare ever forget his role in handing the office of the president over to his dimwitted older brother.
As I said a number of weeks ago, if the American people are ever again idiotic enough to send another member of that family into the White House, they’ll deserve everything that happens to them.
There is also this little bit of tender consolation: those of you who were foolish enough to cast your vote for Dubya on that long ago Election Day can just flat out deny you ever cast your precious ballot for a truly contemptible person.
You were mad for Gore in 2000. You were crazy for Kerry in 2004. Just deny it. Who’s ever gonna know?
While the campaign of 2000 was in full swing, I was producing a political radio program called “The Kirk Grantham Show” (Hello, Kirk, wherever you are).
Every Thursday, I would appear on the show for 15 minutes. On too many occasions to count, I told the listening audience, “Folks, if you elect this jackass from Crawford, Texas to the the office of the Presidency of the United States, you’ll regret it for generations.”
At the time I took a mountain of derision for my stand—but I am as proud of that as anything I’ve done in my life. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Bush’s war is over now; for the most part Barack Obama has gotten American troops the hell out of the place. The other senseless war in Afghanistan seems to be thankfully winding down at long last.
What boggles the mind is the spectacle of the main instigators of the war on Iraq—with the benefit of 20/20 historical hindsight—expressing not-so-much-as-a goddamned molecule of regret for the disaster they brought upon us.
Dick Cheney didn’t bat an eye when he recently told an interviewer that he would do it again in a heartbeat. Bush still says that it was the right thing to do. Jeb Bush tells us—with a face as straight as a two-by-four—that history will be kind to his brother.
It kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
George W. Bush is gone now. Today, he resides inside of his fortified bunker just outside of Dallas, Texas. Today, the man who is in serious competition with James Buchanan for being remembered as the worst, most incompetent chief executive in the annals of human stupidity has the title of—get this!—”elder statesman.”
Isn’t that funny?
Since he mercifully left the White House four years ago, he has developed a previously unknown talent for painting. Who among us would have dreamed that the twit was an aspiring artist? He paints dogs—nothing but dogs—lots ‘n’ lots of doggies.
I love dogs. I was thinking just this morning that dogs are proof of the existence of God—which is “dog” spelled backwards—there must be a connection.
But there must also be a connection to Dubya’s apparent aversion to painting the human face.
Might he be horrified to encounter, if only in his mind, the face of even one of the hundreds of thousands of people who today lie lifeless and decomposing for no other reason than the naivete of the American voters?
I wouldn’t doubt it for an instant.
How does he sleep?
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Ed: Bryonie Wise
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July’s Full Moon in Capricorn: The Heart wants what it Wants. The 4 Stages of a Good Divorce. How to Love a Woman who Scares You. Our Soulmates are Rarely Who We Expect. I Still Think of You. Men, Let’s Stop Fooling Ourselves: Size Matters. To the One Who Tried to Break Me. An Open Letter to the Fixers. How your Stored Memories in the Amygdala can lead to PTSD. How My Sister’s Death Transformed my Self-Perception.