Bushie goes bye bye - a bedtime story

[DancingBear]

The tarnished visage sits at the edge of the eye, blurry in silhouette and dirty in perception. It’s a large white house, we’ve been told, yet from the distance it seems diminished, as if by design. As we move closer, we see the lawn needs mowing, and the landscaping has been ignored for what seems like centuries, yet is only years. The paint peels from the outside, and the stench of cheap food and drink stains the senses. Cowboy boots sit at the back door, along with Italian loafers, golf shoes, and topsiders. The rooms reek of $1200 makeovers masquerading as good taste, and the library shelves are bereft of books, save for one about a goat and a guide to improving your word power, both of which are covered in dust.

A faker lives here amongst the filth. Tired of pretending to be someone he can never be, the faker turns to his frauline and belches, proud of the resonance he generates. “Oh, Georgie”, she says, “You’re such a goof. Better not do that at dinner!” She turns to leave, and once gone the leader of the free world sticks his hand inside his pants and runs off to see the accountant.

For some time now, the rent has not been paid on the house. Each month, the accountant juggles the books and tells the landlords that the big check is coming any day now. For many months, the landlords have believed him, for the faker seemed decent at first. Now though, they have come to learn the awful truth – he is a charlatan, a liar, a pig, and a fraud. He knows nothing of the life he pretends to live, and he lives for nothing save to line his pockets and puff his chest. Without his parents to help, he is sinking in the brine of his own ocean, while those around him steal the life jackets and go predictably deaf when he calls for help.

The landlords now come to throw the faker back to his made for TV ranch. There are thousands of them, hundreds of thousands, millions of them, each holding THE LETTER. “By order of the federal government, you are to vacate the premises no later than January 19, 2005.” Along with the letter, they bring mops, brooms, and plenty of cleaning supplies, for the house is a very good example of what happens when you let bad people into good homes.

Although everyone has an idea of how to clean the house, they rally behind the one whose task it is to serve the eviction notice. While many think their chosen one could have cleaned better, they rally behind the fact that the walls are laden with dirt, and piles of beach sand and colored plastic buckets lie everywhere. The Good Housekeeping Seal Of Approval is a noble goal, but that comes later. For now, the filth and the faker must both be removed.

With heart and mind, they rally as one to kick the cowboy to the curb. With him go the accoutrements of his stay – bottles of Boones Farm found stashed in desk drawers, clip-on ties, and large bags of pretzels with the universal danger symbol painted on each one. The new landlords hire an exterminator from Texas to fumigate, his repeated utterances of the phrase “do you know who I am?” adding to the merriment.

It takes many hours, and much elbow grease, but the house now is fit to live in once again. While there is still much to do, the new tenant will see to it that the house never sees this type of neglect again. He will begin the process of restoring the house to its past glory, but can only do so much. The landlords will find those with newer and bolder skills as time goes on, but for now the new tenant will do just fine. The house will shine now, as it should, and the rent will be paid on time. What a wonderful change that will be.

At the curb, the faker gnaws at a piece of beef jerky, and his lips roll into a perverted smile. “Hell, Laura”, he says, “I didn’t even think the place was that dirty.”

“Oh, fer crissakes stop that stupid smirk, will ya? Any idiot could tell it was a mess. What the hell did I ever see in you, anyway?”

“And take that goddamn hand out of your pants.”