A Matter Of Great Importance

Dear George Washington Bush,

I have to confess to you, sir, that I’ve grown weary of your monkey business. Tomorrow I intend to join with millions of other Americans in voting you out of office.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I voted for you last year, but that was last year. I lived in a different America –and a different shitty apartment– then, and was so drunk and tired I could barely find my mouth with a soup spoon. I had all manner of mental and physical hygiene issues, and I appreciated the fact that you seemed cleaner than some of the other fellows. I also appreciated your commitment to physical fitness, a commitment that has always proved so personally difficult for me. I figure it counts for something that an older guy like you can run circles around his fat mob of handlers.

I admired your “saltiness,” the way you said “fuck” and “pussy” all the time and were always chasing tail. I thought your tattoo of a mongoose biting the breasts of a naked woman was fabulous, and I liked the whack, pimpy hats you were always wearing. It didn’t bother me in the least that you purportedly smoked methamphetamine and drove that dune buggy into the river and shot some other dude in the ass. What was it to me that you were, according to some hag in the Washington Post, “notoriously gropey”?

Big deal, I would say to people at work when they’d complain about your “indiscretions.” Sometimes, in your defense, I’d quote my (and your) favorite philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche: “Human, all too human.” None of the nitwits had any idea what I was talking about, but I figure that’s their fucking problem.

What I’m saying is that I was willing to cut you some slack. I thought it was sort of cool to have a fuck-up for a President. Still, I never did buy into the popular perception that you were “dumber than a tube sock full of gravel.” Nor, however, did I believe you were sly as a fox. I just thought you were an average, good-shit sort of guy.

Now, though, I’ll have you know that you have one seriously fucking dissatisfied customer on your hands.

I don’t know how many times I’ve written you complaining about those sticky plastic strips they put on CDs, and you haven’t bothered to send me even one stinking reply –not one!

And then I went to pick up my car tabs at the department of motor vehicles and they wanted to charge me more than a hundred bucks for a couple of shitty stickers, and the skanky old Bush administration functionary who waited on me insisted that I either write a check or pay cash, neither of which I was in a position to do.

So here’s what it boils down to, I guess: Thanks for nothing, you cracker bastard. And good riddance.

Let’s just see how much tail you get when you’re no longer the President.

Sincerely,

Brad Zellar