I question your reality

How can a man who wallows in a pool of filth day in and day out convince himself that he’s clean?

Specifically, how does George Bush reconcile and rationalize the lies, deceit, dishonesty, character assassination, and law breaking (and that’s all before breakfast) in his head without going stark raving mad?

(God how I would love to strap that boy down with a lie detector and simulcast the results worldwide.)

I’m not a religious man, but I do have a conscience. George claims to be religious, but doesn’t appear to manifest a twinge of guilt about his myriad misdeeds. No lie is too big for the President. No hypocrisy too glaring. With that it’s-so-obvious-to-me-why-isn’t-it-to-you grin of his, Bush will lean toward an audience and tell Texas whoppers until they turn out the lights.

So how come he isn’t covered in hives or boils or displaying some other physical manifestations of extreme stress?

How does he do it? Alcohol? Drugs? Feng Shui?

Honestly, I don’t know, but I did an informal survey of people waiting for a bus on Hennepin Ave. at eleven thirty at night and received these thought provoking responses.

He’s a hologram.
Bush who?
Gimme a dollar.
Fuck that cocksucking bitch.
That boy is bat-shit crazy.
Is this going north or south?
Come any closer and I’ll cut your nips off.
My brother said he’s the Antichrist.
I’ve never seen him sweat. Have you seen him sweat?
Monkey boy, monkey boy, monkey boy.

There you go. The word from the street.

I’ve got to go lance a boil.