It's Time For That Beer ...

[NanceGreggs]

It’s Time for That Beer …
By Nancy Greggs

We all remember the lead-up to the 2000 presidential (s)election, when everyone was talking about Bush being the guy they’d most like to have a beer with.

Yeah, those were the days, my friend – and some thought they’d never end: the halcyon days of a sound economy, a balanced budget and a surplus, our country at peace and respected around the globe.

But those days did end, and they’ve ended with a vengeance. We now find ourselves trapped in two unwinnable wars, mired in debt, distanced from our allies, and perceived as being war-mongering torturers rather than the Beacon of Democracy.

But given the events of the past few weeks, I think it’s time for those once enamored of knocking back a few brewskies with Georgie to take him to the nearest bar and have it.

God knows he could use the company, along with a good talking’ to – you know, the kind of depressing, straight-from-the-hip discussion that calls for a bit of camaraderie and few stiff belts to soften the blow.

Let the Lil’ Leader get well into his cups before you break the news that it’s over. The Coalition of the Willing, the Moral Majority, the Christian Crusade have been exposed as empty rhetoric that the most accomplished flim-flam man can no longer sell, and even the right-wing pundits and the media whores are no longer buying the snake-oil flavored kool-aid they couldn’t get enough of back in the day.

As you order up that first round of shooters, explain to the PNAC Puppet that a terrorist alert isn’t going to distract the nation from what’s been going on, or from the facts that are coming to light.

Tell him that the people who were once his staunchest supporters are now a lot more interested in covering their own asses than they are in covering up the fact that he’s a moron – as he always has been, always will be, now that the truth can be told.

Talk to him about the fact that if he’d only shown as much loyalty to the country he swore to serve and protect as he is to his lyin’ buddies, he might not be going down as hard as he’s about to.

Slap the little fella on the back as you trade punchlines about how pleading the fifth sort of makes someone look really, really guilty – guilty to the point where even the best spinmeisters are calling it quits, as they suffer the last throes of creative-excuse-making fatigue.

Throw a bunch of quarters in the jukebox and blast some oldies – like Hail to the Chief – while you break the news that his chief days are long over, as forgotten as a Mission Accomplished photo-op, as deep-sixed as a New Orleans saxophone rusting at the bottom of the gulf.

Tell him that his own party is not about to sing Nearer My God to Thee as they go down with the great Ship BushCo, now that the iceberg has done its damage, and it’s every GOP man for himself.

Slap your credit card down and tell the bartender to keep ‘em coming. Tell him to pull the shades and flip the Sorry, We’re Closed sign on the front door – because this is going to take some time, some patience, some intestinal fortitude, and you’re likely to be there all night.

Gently but firmly remind the commander-in-chief that his army is broken – and he broke it. Explain how those casualties are mounting, and people are counting – and Karl Rove’s magic math no longer adds up with the American citizenry.

When he’s good and plastered, broach the ultimate taboo topic and explain to him that even his own party members, anxious to retain what little credibility they have left, are starting to chant the phrase “Impeachment – it’s not just for Democrats anymore!”

After you’ve done your part, pour the slobbering SOB into a cab and give him one last military-style salute as he fades into his well-deserved legacy – alone and, at least temporarily, oblivious to what will inevitably be his fate in the Dawn’s Early Light.

For all of you who promoted the idea that the guy you’d most want to have a beer with was the guy who should be running a nation, be sure to raise your glasses and toast yourselves one last time before you head home – because you’ve all done one heck of a job - and at this point, cyrin' in your beer is pretty much all you're good for.