"; if (e.page > 0) { html += `` } if (e.page < e.pages.length - 1) { html += `` } for (i in e.executable) { if (e.executable[i][0] == e.page) { e.executable[i][1](); } } if (e.image == true) setTimeout(()=>{ candImg = $(".person_image")[0] if (candImg) { candImg.remove() console.log("TRYING"); $("#final_results_description")[0].style = ` text-align:left; width: 72%; height:71%; display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; overflow: auto; ` console.log("RESULTS UPDATED"); } }, 10) else if (e.image) setTimeout(()=>{ candImg = $(".person_image")[0]; if (candImg) { candImg.src = e.image; console.log("TRYING"); $("#final_results_description")[0].style = ` text-align:left; width: 72%; height:71%; display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; overflow: auto; ` console.log("RESULTS UPDATED"); } }, 10) return html; } endingConstructor = (a = 1) => { $("#final_results_description")[0].innerHTML = construct(a); } // ENDINGS -- this is slightly more reliable than the ending code method e.multiple_endings = true; e.header = "
error
"; e.pages = ["This is an error handler
"]; e.page = 0; endingPicker = (out, totv, aa, quickstats) => { //out = "win", "loss", or "tie" for your candidate //totv = total votes in entire election //aa = all final overall results data //quickstat = relevant data on candidate performance (format: your candidate's electoral vote count, your candidate's popular vote share, your candidate's raw vote total) /* e.header = "" e.pages = ["", ""] */ e.pages = [] e.header = ""; e.executable = [] //LANDSLIDE DEFEAT if (quickstats[0] <= 138 && Dem == 1) { // Landslide Defeat - Clinton e.pages.push(`The Need for Honorable Men
Something had broken. Ruptured. George was sure he was dying inside the small, makeshift green room in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC. It was the only thing that explained his inability to move, his inability to act. He sat in a chair before an illuminated vanity, doubled over as if in pain, ignoring both the muted television and the feed of the building’s increasingly dismal election night party. Talking heads mouthed silently over pictures of cheering crowds in New York and Chicago. A map of the country displayed an ever-expanding Democratic wave penetrating into the heart of what had once been Bush country.
George wracked his brain to figure out where the night had gone wrong. He remembered meeting with Condi at the White House and her frowning when he expressed his hope that they called his victory early. He remembered sitting in the back of his limousine with Rove as Rove grimaced at exit poll numbers. He remembered Laura and his girls talking in exaggerated terms about the successes he had already had, about the good he had done since coming to Washington. He’d willed himself to ignore the implications of these interactions, had told himself he’d prove them wrong.
There was an ache in his chest. He drew his body in closer.
Advisors entered and left his green room, attempting to nudge him without broaching the topic directly. What did he think about calling up his opponent, Card hinted, an hour after the full extent of the calamity became clear. Maybe he could talk with his running mate about how to talk sense to the increasingly sparse and heartbroken crowds at his party, offered Fletcher. Did he want to talk to Roger at Fox and maybe work out some plan for the next few days? Nothing moved him. All his certainty, his swagger, his confidence, had vanished. He was hollow and used up.
“Sir?”
Bush did not move from his near-fetal position.
“Sir, um. It’s Blake Gottesman.” There was a pause. George listened as his bag man shifted his weight uncomfortably in the doorway. “I don’t want to bother you while you, um…” He broke off. “Your father is on the phone. He demanded to talk to you.”
The ache spread, cancer-like. He wanted more than anything to vanish, but instead he unfolded his body and cast a desperate look at his assistant. “Poppy is…?”
Blake deposited a black device in George’s hand. He stared at the weight and then at Blake.
“You… need to take it off hold, Mr. President.”
George wiped his face with his sleeve and cleared his throat. Then he took the call off hold and spoke in the most normal voice he could manage. “Hi, Poppy.”
“George,” the voice on the other end of the receiver rumbled like an approaching storm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
George was silent. He stood up from his chair. Blake, sensing danger, retreated into the hallway. “I’m uh… I’m watching the returns, Poppy. Our people… They umm… they don’t think…”
He trailed off, expecting his father to interrupt, but the old man was silent. Somehow, that was worse.
“There’s still votes to count. I don’t want to do anything I’m gonna regret after 2000,” he offered weakly.
“Pathetic.” Poppy’s voice was loud and sharp. A clap of thunder. “Bullshit.”
“Poppy, please…”
“Do you think no one’s noticed you sitting there crying your eyes out? You’re in there going, ‘Boo hoo. Boo hoo. Poor me.’” George was aware he was breathing heavy and gripping the phone so hard that his knuckles had started to crack. “The results are bad enough, but do you know how humiliating your bellyaching is? For the party? For your mother? For Jeb?”
His voice was barely more than a whisper. “But in ‘92 you…”
“That was Perot. I would have killed Clinton without him. I won in a landslide in ‘88.”
George felt as if there was a fire burning under his skin. His head felt warm. He was sure at any moment, he would self-immolate. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to breathe but it was suddenly ragged. “I don’t know what—. It’s all coming apart, Poppy. It’s all coming apart.” His vision blurred. “It’s all coming apart and I don’t know what to do. They’re gonna destroy everything.”
“You were given so many chances, Junior. You were given so, so many chances. At Princeton. At Harvard. In Texas. There are people who would kill for everything you got, all the opportunities. And you fucked it. If I’d known this was how you’d turn out, I never would have let you get this far.” On the phone, Poppy was breathing hard. “Get out there and concede or you won’t like what happens next. I promise you.”
“Daddy…”
“Grow up.”
There was a loud click. The line went dead. George stood in silence looking at the phone. In his mind, he saw himself crying. He saw himself shattering the phone against the wall. He saw himself calling back and screaming into his father’s ear. Instead, he opened the phone carefully and dialed his opponent. He put on his best mask of confidence as they answered. As he laughed and joked in his fake cowboy confidence, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
The Need for Honorable Men
Something had broken. Ruptured. George was sure he was dying inside the small, makeshift green room in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC. It was the only thing that explained his inability to move, his inability to act. He sat in a chair before an illuminated vanity, doubled over as if in pain, ignoring both the muted television and the feed of the building’s increasingly dismal election night party. Talking heads mouthed silently over pictures of cheering crowds in New York and Chicago. A map of the country displayed an ever-expanding Democratic wave penetrating into the heart of what had once been Bush country.
George wracked his brain to figure out where the night had gone wrong. He remembered meeting with Condi at the White House and her frowning when he expressed his hope that they called his victory early. He remembered sitting in the back of his limousine with Rove as Rove grimaced at exit poll numbers. He remembered Laura and his girls talking in exaggerated terms about the successes he had already had, about the good he had done since coming to Washington. He’d willed himself to ignore the implications of these interactions, had told himself he’d prove them wrong.
There was an ache in his chest. He drew his body in closer.
Advisors entered and left his green room, attempting to nudge him without broaching the topic directly. What did he think about calling up his opponent, Card hinted, an hour after the full extent of the calamity became clear. Maybe he could talk with his running mate about how to talk sense to the increasingly sparse and heartbroken crowds at his party, offered Fletcher. Did he want to talk to Roger at Fox and maybe work out some plan for the next few days? Nothing moved him. All his certainty, his swagger, his confidence, had vanished. He was hollow and used up.
“Sir?”
Bush did not move from his near-fetal position.
“Sir, um. It’s Blake Gottesman.” There was a pause. George listened as his bag man shifted his weight uncomfortably in the doorway. “I don’t want to bother you while you, um…” He broke off. “Your father is on the phone. He demanded to talk to you.”
The ache spread, cancer-like. He wanted more than anything to vanish, but instead he unfolded his body and cast a desperate look at his assistant. “Poppy is…?”
Blake deposited a black device in George’s hand. He stared at the weight and then at Blake.
“You… need to take it off hold, Mr. President.”
George wiped his face with his sleeve and cleared his throat. Then he took the call off hold and spoke in the most normal voice he could manage. “Hi, Poppy.”
“George,” the voice on the other end of the receiver rumbled like an approaching storm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
George was silent. He stood up from his chair. Blake, sensing danger, retreated into the hallway. “I’m uh… I’m watching the returns, Poppy. Our people… They umm… they don’t think…”
He trailed off, expecting his father to interrupt, but the old man was silent. Somehow, that was worse.
“There’s still votes to count. I don’t want to do anything I’m gonna regret after 2000,” he offered weakly.
“Pathetic.” Poppy’s voice was loud and sharp. A clap of thunder. “Bullshit.”
“Poppy, please…”
“Do you think no one’s noticed you sitting there crying your eyes out? You’re in there going, ‘Boo hoo. Boo hoo. Poor me.’” George was aware he was breathing heavy and gripping the phone so hard that his knuckles had started to crack. “The results are bad enough, but do you know how humiliating your bellyaching is? For the party? For your mother? For Jeb?”
His voice was barely more than a whisper. “But in ‘92 you…”
“That was Perot. I would have killed Clinton without him. I won in a landslide in ‘88.”
George felt as if there was a fire burning under his skin. His head felt warm. He was sure at any moment, he would self-immolate. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to breathe but it was suddenly ragged. “I don’t know what—. It’s all coming apart, Poppy. It’s all coming apart.” His vision blurred. “It’s all coming apart and I don’t know what to do. They’re gonna destroy everything.”
“You were given so many chances, Junior. You were given so, so many chances. At Princeton. At Harvard. In Texas. There are people who would kill for everything you got, all the opportunities. And you fucked it. If I’d known this was how you’d turn out, I never would have let you get this far.” On the phone, Poppy was breathing hard. “Get out there and concede or you won’t like what happens next. I promise you.”
“Daddy…”
“Grow up.”
There was a loud click. The line went dead. George stood in silence looking at the phone. In his mind, he saw himself crying. He saw himself shattering the phone against the wall. He saw himself calling back and screaming into his father’s ear. Instead, he opened the phone carefully and dialed his opponent. He put on his best mask of confidence as they answered. As he laughed and joked in his fake cowboy confidence, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
The Need for Honorable Men
Something had broken. Ruptured. George was sure he was dying inside the small, makeshift green room in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC. It was the only thing that explained his inability to move, his inability to act. He sat in a chair before an illuminated vanity, doubled over as if in pain, ignoring both the muted television and the feed of the building’s increasingly dismal election night party. Talking heads mouthed silently over pictures of cheering crowds in New York and Chicago. A map of the country displayed an ever-expanding Democratic wave penetrating into the heart of what had once been Bush country.
George wracked his brain to figure out where the night had gone wrong. He remembered meeting with Condi at the White House and her frowning when he expressed his hope that they called his victory early. He remembered sitting in the back of his limousine with Rove as Rove grimaced at exit poll numbers. He remembered Laura and his girls talking in exaggerated terms about the successes he had already had, about the good he had done since coming to Washington. He’d willed himself to ignore the implications of these interactions, had told himself he’d prove them wrong.
There was an ache in his chest. He drew his body in closer.
Advisors entered and left his green room, attempting to nudge him without broaching the topic directly. What did he think about calling up his opponent, Card hinted, an hour after the full extent of the calamity became clear. Maybe he could talk with his running mate about how to talk sense to the increasingly sparse and heartbroken crowds at his party, offered Fletcher. Did he want to talk to Roger at Fox and maybe work out some plan for the next few days? Nothing moved him. All his certainty, his swagger, his confidence, had vanished. He was hollow and used up.
“Sir?”
Bush did not move from his near-fetal position.
“Sir, um. It’s Blake Gottesman.” There was a pause. George listened as his bag man shifted his weight uncomfortably in the doorway. “I don’t want to bother you while you, um…” He broke off. “Your father is on the phone. He demanded to talk to you.”
The ache spread, cancer-like. He wanted more than anything to vanish, but instead he unfolded his body and cast a desperate look at his assistant. “Poppy is…?”
Blake deposited a black device in George’s hand. He stared at the weight and then at Blake.
“You… need to take it off hold, Mr. President.”
George wiped his face with his sleeve and cleared his throat. Then he took the call off hold and spoke in the most normal voice he could manage. “Hi, Poppy.”
“George,” the voice on the other end of the receiver rumbled like an approaching storm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
George was silent. He stood up from his chair. Blake, sensing danger, retreated into the hallway. “I’m uh… I’m watching the returns, Poppy. Our people… They umm… they don’t think…”
He trailed off, expecting his father to interrupt, but the old man was silent. Somehow, that was worse.
“There’s still votes to count. I don’t want to do anything I’m gonna regret after 2000,” he offered weakly.
“Pathetic.” Poppy’s voice was loud and sharp. A clap of thunder. “Bullshit.”
“Poppy, please…”
“Do you think no one’s noticed you sitting there crying your eyes out? You’re in there going, ‘Boo hoo. Boo hoo. Poor me.’” George was aware he was breathing heavy and gripping the phone so hard that his knuckles had started to crack. “The results are bad enough, but do you know how humiliating your bellyaching is? For the party? For your mother? For Jeb?”
His voice was barely more than a whisper. “But in ‘92 you…”
“That was Perot. I would have killed Clinton without him. I won in a landslide in ‘88.”
George felt as if there was a fire burning under his skin. His head felt warm. He was sure at any moment, he would self-immolate. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to breathe but it was suddenly ragged. “I don’t know what—. It’s all coming apart, Poppy. It’s all coming apart.” His vision blurred. “It’s all coming apart and I don’t know what to do. They’re gonna destroy everything.”
“You were given so many chances, Junior. You were given so, so many chances. At Princeton. At Harvard. In Texas. There are people who would kill for everything you got, all the opportunities. And you fucked it. If I’d known this was how you’d turn out, I never would have let you get this far.” On the phone, Poppy was breathing hard. “Get out there and concede or you won’t like what happens next. I promise you.”
“Daddy…”
“Grow up.”
There was a loud click. The line went dead. George stood in silence looking at the phone. In his mind, he saw himself crying. He saw himself shattering the phone against the wall. He saw himself calling back and screaming into his father’s ear. Instead, he opened the phone carefully and dialed his opponent. He put on his best mask of confidence as they answered. As he laughed and joked in his fake cowboy confidence, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
The Need for Honorable Men
Something had broken. Ruptured. George was sure he was dying inside the small, makeshift green room in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC. It was the only thing that explained his inability to move, his inability to act. He sat in a chair before an illuminated vanity, doubled over as if in pain, ignoring both the muted television and the feed of the building’s increasingly dismal election night party. Talking heads mouthed silently over pictures of cheering crowds in New York and Chicago. A map of the country displayed an ever-expanding Democratic wave penetrating into the heart of what had once been Bush country.
George wracked his brain to figure out where the night had gone wrong. He remembered meeting with Condi at the White House and her frowning when he expressed his hope that they called his victory early. He remembered sitting in the back of his limousine with Rove as Rove grimaced at exit poll numbers. He remembered Laura and his girls talking in exaggerated terms about the successes he had already had, about the good he had done since coming to Washington. He’d willed himself to ignore the implications of these interactions, had told himself he’d prove them wrong.
There was an ache in his chest. He drew his body in closer.
Advisors entered and left his green room, attempting to nudge him without broaching the topic directly. What did he think about calling up his opponent, Card hinted, an hour after the full extent of the calamity became clear. Maybe he could talk with his running mate about how to talk sense to the increasingly sparse and heartbroken crowds at his party, offered Fletcher. Did he want to talk to Roger at Fox and maybe work out some plan for the next few days? Nothing moved him. All his certainty, his swagger, his confidence, had vanished. He was hollow and used up.
“Sir?”
Bush did not move from his near-fetal position.
“Sir, um. It’s Blake Gottesman.” There was a pause. George listened as his bag man shifted his weight uncomfortably in the doorway. “I don’t want to bother you while you, um…” He broke off. “Your father is on the phone. He demanded to talk to you.”
The ache spread, cancer-like. He wanted more than anything to vanish, but instead he unfolded his body and cast a desperate look at his assistant. “Poppy is…?”
Blake deposited a black device in George’s hand. He stared at the weight and then at Blake.
“You… need to take it off hold, Mr. President.”
George wiped his face with his sleeve and cleared his throat. Then he took the call off hold and spoke in the most normal voice he could manage. “Hi, Poppy.”
“George,” the voice on the other end of the receiver rumbled like an approaching storm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
George was silent. He stood up from his chair. Blake, sensing danger, retreated into the hallway. “I’m uh… I’m watching the returns, Poppy. Our people… They umm… they don’t think…”
He trailed off, expecting his father to interrupt, but the old man was silent. Somehow, that was worse.
“There’s still votes to count. I don’t want to do anything I’m gonna regret after 2000,” he offered weakly.
“Pathetic.” Poppy’s voice was loud and sharp. A clap of thunder. “Bullshit.”
“Poppy, please…”
“Do you think no one’s noticed you sitting there crying your eyes out? You’re in there going, ‘Boo hoo. Boo hoo. Poor me.’” George was aware he was breathing heavy and gripping the phone so hard that his knuckles had started to crack. “The results are bad enough, but do you know how humiliating your bellyaching is? For the party? For your mother? For Jeb?”
His voice was barely more than a whisper. “But in ‘92 you…”
“That was Perot. I would have killed Clinton without him. I won in a landslide in ‘88.”
George felt as if there was a fire burning under his skin. His head felt warm. He was sure at any moment, he would self-immolate. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to breathe but it was suddenly ragged. “I don’t know what—. It’s all coming apart, Poppy. It’s all coming apart.” His vision blurred. “It’s all coming apart and I don’t know what to do. They’re gonna destroy everything.”
“You were given so many chances, Junior. You were given so, so many chances. At Princeton. At Harvard. In Texas. There are people who would kill for everything you got, all the opportunities. And you fucked it. If I’d known this was how you’d turn out, I never would have let you get this far.” On the phone, Poppy was breathing hard. “Get out there and concede or you won’t like what happens next. I promise you.”
“Daddy…”
“Grow up.”
There was a loud click. The line went dead. George stood in silence looking at the phone. In his mind, he saw himself crying. He saw himself shattering the phone against the wall. He saw himself calling back and screaming into his father’s ear. Instead, he opened the phone carefully and dialed his opponent. He put on his best mask of confidence as they answered. As he laughed and joked in his fake cowboy confidence, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
The Need for Honorable Men
Something had broken. Ruptured. George was sure he was dying inside the small, makeshift green room in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC. It was the only thing that explained his inability to move, his inability to act. He sat in a chair before an illuminated vanity, doubled over as if in pain, ignoring both the muted television and the feed of the building’s increasingly dismal election night party. Talking heads mouthed silently over pictures of cheering crowds in New York and Chicago. A map of the country displayed an ever-expanding Democratic wave penetrating into the heart of what had once been Bush country.
George wracked his brain to figure out where the night had gone wrong. He remembered meeting with Condi at the White House and her frowning when he expressed his hope that they called his victory early. He remembered sitting in the back of his limousine with Rove as Rove grimaced at exit poll numbers. He remembered Laura and his girls talking in exaggerated terms about the successes he had already had, about the good he had done since coming to Washington. He’d willed himself to ignore the implications of these interactions, had told himself he’d prove them wrong.
There was an ache in his chest. He drew his body in closer.
Advisors entered and left his green room, attempting to nudge him without broaching the topic directly. What did he think about calling up his opponent, Card hinted, an hour after the full extent of the calamity became clear. Maybe he could talk with his running mate about how to talk sense to the increasingly sparse and heartbroken crowds at his party, offered Fletcher. Did he want to talk to Roger at Fox and maybe work out some plan for the next few days? Nothing moved him. All his certainty, his swagger, his confidence, had vanished. He was hollow and used up.
“Sir?”
Bush did not move from his near-fetal position.
“Sir, um. It’s Blake Gottesman.” There was a pause. George listened as his bag man shifted his weight uncomfortably in the doorway. “I don’t want to bother you while you, um…” He broke off. “Your father is on the phone. He demanded to talk to you.”
The ache spread, cancer-like. He wanted more than anything to vanish, but instead he unfolded his body and cast a desperate look at his assistant. “Poppy is…?”
Blake deposited a black device in George’s hand. He stared at the weight and then at Blake.
“You… need to take it off hold, Mr. President.”
George wiped his face with his sleeve and cleared his throat. Then he took the call off hold and spoke in the most normal voice he could manage. “Hi, Poppy.”
“George,” the voice on the other end of the receiver rumbled like an approaching storm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
George was silent. He stood up from his chair. Blake, sensing danger, retreated into the hallway. “I’m uh… I’m watching the returns, Poppy. Our people… They umm… they don’t think…”
He trailed off, expecting his father to interrupt, but the old man was silent. Somehow, that was worse.
“There’s still votes to count. I don’t want to do anything I’m gonna regret after 2000,” he offered weakly.
“Pathetic.” Poppy’s voice was loud and sharp. A clap of thunder. “Bullshit.”
“Poppy, please…”
“Do you think no one’s noticed you sitting there crying your eyes out? You’re in there going, ‘Boo hoo. Boo hoo. Poor me.’” George was aware he was breathing heavy and gripping the phone so hard that his knuckles had started to crack. “The results are bad enough, but do you know how humiliating your bellyaching is? For the party? For your mother? For Jeb?”
His voice was barely more than a whisper. “But in ‘92 you…”
“That was Perot. I would have killed Clinton without him. I won in a landslide in ‘88.”
George felt as if there was a fire burning under his skin. His head felt warm. He was sure at any moment, he would self-immolate. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to breathe but it was suddenly ragged. “I don’t know what—. It’s all coming apart, Poppy. It’s all coming apart.” His vision blurred. “It’s all coming apart and I don’t know what to do. They’re gonna destroy everything.”
“You were given so many chances, Junior. You were given so, so many chances. At Princeton. At Harvard. In Texas. There are people who would kill for everything you got, all the opportunities. And you fucked it. If I’d known this was how you’d turn out, I never would have let you get this far.” On the phone, Poppy was breathing hard. “Get out there and concede or you won’t like what happens next. I promise you.”
“Daddy…”
“Grow up.”
There was a loud click. The line went dead. George stood in silence looking at the phone. In his mind, he saw himself crying. He saw himself shattering the phone against the wall. He saw himself calling back and screaming into his father’s ear. Instead, he opened the phone carefully and dialed his opponent. He put on his best mask of confidence as they answered. As he laughed and joked in his fake cowboy confidence, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
The Need for Honorable Men
Something had broken. Ruptured. George was sure he was dying inside the small, makeshift green room in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC. It was the only thing that explained his inability to move, his inability to act. He sat in a chair before an illuminated vanity, doubled over as if in pain, ignoring both the muted television and the feed of the building’s increasingly dismal election night party. Talking heads mouthed silently over pictures of cheering crowds in New York and Chicago. A map of the country displayed an ever-expanding Democratic wave penetrating into the heart of what had once been Bush country.
George wracked his brain to figure out where the night had gone wrong. He remembered meeting with Condi at the White House and her frowning when he expressed his hope that they called his victory early. He remembered sitting in the back of his limousine with Rove as Rove grimaced at exit poll numbers. He remembered Laura and his girls talking in exaggerated terms about the successes he had already had, about the good he had done since coming to Washington. He’d willed himself to ignore the implications of these interactions, had told himself he’d prove them wrong.
There was an ache in his chest. He drew his body in closer.
Advisors entered and left his green room, attempting to nudge him without broaching the topic directly. What did he think about calling up his opponent, Card hinted, an hour after the full extent of the calamity became clear. Maybe he could talk with his running mate about how to talk sense to the increasingly sparse and heartbroken crowds at his party, offered Fletcher. Did he want to talk to Roger at Fox and maybe work out some plan for the next few days? Nothing moved him. All his certainty, his swagger, his confidence, had vanished. He was hollow and used up.
“Sir?”
Bush did not move from his near-fetal position.
“Sir, um. It’s Blake Gottesman.” There was a pause. George listened as his bag man shifted his weight uncomfortably in the doorway. “I don’t want to bother you while you, um…” He broke off. “Your father is on the phone. He demanded to talk to you.”
The ache spread, cancer-like. He wanted more than anything to vanish, but instead he unfolded his body and cast a desperate look at his assistant. “Poppy is…?”
Blake deposited a black device in George’s hand. He stared at the weight and then at Blake.
“You… need to take it off hold, Mr. President.”
George wiped his face with his sleeve and cleared his throat. Then he took the call off hold and spoke in the most normal voice he could manage. “Hi, Poppy.”
“George,” the voice on the other end of the receiver rumbled like an approaching storm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
George was silent. He stood up from his chair. Blake, sensing danger, retreated into the hallway. “I’m uh… I’m watching the returns, Poppy. Our people… They umm… they don’t think…”
He trailed off, expecting his father to interrupt, but the old man was silent. Somehow, that was worse.
“There’s still votes to count. I don’t want to do anything I’m gonna regret after 2000,” he offered weakly.
“Pathetic.” Poppy’s voice was loud and sharp. A clap of thunder. “Bullshit.”
“Poppy, please…”
“Do you think no one’s noticed you sitting there crying your eyes out? You’re in there going, ‘Boo hoo. Boo hoo. Poor me.’” George was aware he was breathing heavy and gripping the phone so hard that his knuckles had started to crack. “The results are bad enough, but do you know how humiliating your bellyaching is? For the party? For your mother? For Jeb?”
His voice was barely more than a whisper. “But in ‘92 you…”
“That was Perot. I would have killed Clinton without him. I won in a landslide in ‘88.”
George felt as if there was a fire burning under his skin. His head felt warm. He was sure at any moment, he would self-immolate. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to breathe but it was suddenly ragged. “I don’t know what—. It’s all coming apart, Poppy. It’s all coming apart.” His vision blurred. “It’s all coming apart and I don’t know what to do. They’re gonna destroy everything.”
“You were given so many chances, Junior. You were given so, so many chances. At Princeton. At Harvard. In Texas. There are people who would kill for everything you got, all the opportunities. And you fucked it. If I’d known this was how you’d turn out, I never would have let you get this far.” On the phone, Poppy was breathing hard. “Get out there and concede or you won’t like what happens next. I promise you.”
“Daddy…”
“Grow up.”
There was a loud click. The line went dead. George stood in silence looking at the phone. In his mind, he saw himself crying. He saw himself shattering the phone against the wall. He saw himself calling back and screaming into his father’s ear. Instead, he opened the phone carefully and dialed his opponent. He put on his best mask of confidence as they answered. As he laughed and joked in his fake cowboy confidence, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
The Need for Honorable Men
Something had broken. Ruptured. George was sure he was dying inside the small, makeshift green room in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC. It was the only thing that explained his inability to move, his inability to act. He sat in a chair before an illuminated vanity, doubled over as if in pain, ignoring both the muted television and the feed of the building’s increasingly dismal election night party. Talking heads mouthed silently over pictures of cheering crowds in New York and Chicago. A map of the country displayed an ever-expanding Democratic wave penetrating into the heart of what had once been Bush country.
George wracked his brain to figure out where the night had gone wrong. He remembered meeting with Condi at the White House and her frowning when he expressed his hope that they called his victory early. He remembered sitting in the back of his limousine with Rove as Rove grimaced at exit poll numbers. He remembered Laura and his girls talking in exaggerated terms about the successes he had already had, about the good he had done since coming to Washington. He’d willed himself to ignore the implications of these interactions, had told himself he’d prove them wrong.
There was an ache in his chest. He drew his body in closer.
Advisors entered and left his green room, attempting to nudge him without broaching the topic directly. What did he think about calling up his opponent, Card hinted, an hour after the full extent of the calamity became clear. Maybe he could talk with his running mate about how to talk sense to the increasingly sparse and heartbroken crowds at his party, offered Fletcher. Did he want to talk to Roger at Fox and maybe work out some plan for the next few days? Nothing moved him. All his certainty, his swagger, his confidence, had vanished. He was hollow and used up.
“Sir?”
Bush did not move from his near-fetal position.
“Sir, um. It’s Blake Gottesman.” There was a pause. George listened as his bag man shifted his weight uncomfortably in the doorway. “I don’t want to bother you while you, um…” He broke off. “Your father is on the phone. He demanded to talk to you.”
The ache spread, cancer-like. He wanted more than anything to vanish, but instead he unfolded his body and cast a desperate look at his assistant. “Poppy is…?”
Blake deposited a black device in George’s hand. He stared at the weight and then at Blake.
“You… need to take it off hold, Mr. President.”
George wiped his face with his sleeve and cleared his throat. Then he took the call off hold and spoke in the most normal voice he could manage. “Hi, Poppy.”
“George,” the voice on the other end of the receiver rumbled like an approaching storm. “What do you think you’re doing?”
George was silent. He stood up from his chair. Blake, sensing danger, retreated into the hallway. “I’m uh… I’m watching the returns, Poppy. Our people… They umm… they don’t think…”
He trailed off, expecting his father to interrupt, but the old man was silent. Somehow, that was worse.
“There’s still votes to count. I don’t want to do anything I’m gonna regret after 2000,” he offered weakly.
“Pathetic.” Poppy’s voice was loud and sharp. A clap of thunder. “Bullshit.”
“Poppy, please…”
“Do you think no one’s noticed you sitting there crying your eyes out? You’re in there going, ‘Boo hoo. Boo hoo. Poor me.’” George was aware he was breathing heavy and gripping the phone so hard that his knuckles had started to crack. “The results are bad enough, but do you know how humiliating your bellyaching is? For the party? For your mother? For Jeb?”
His voice was barely more than a whisper. “But in ‘92 you…”
“That was Perot. I would have killed Clinton without him. I won in a landslide in ‘88.”
George felt as if there was a fire burning under his skin. His head felt warm. He was sure at any moment, he would self-immolate. “Poppy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to breathe but it was suddenly ragged. “I don’t know what—. It’s all coming apart, Poppy. It’s all coming apart.” His vision blurred. “It’s all coming apart and I don’t know what to do. They’re gonna destroy everything.”
“You were given so many chances, Junior. You were given so, so many chances. At Princeton. At Harvard. In Texas. There are people who would kill for everything you got, all the opportunities. And you fucked it. If I’d known this was how you’d turn out, I never would have let you get this far.” On the phone, Poppy was breathing hard. “Get out there and concede or you won’t like what happens next. I promise you.”
“Daddy…”
“Grow up.”
There was a loud click. The line went dead. George stood in silence looking at the phone. In his mind, he saw himself crying. He saw himself shattering the phone against the wall. He saw himself calling back and screaming into his father’s ear. Instead, he opened the phone carefully and dialed his opponent. He put on his best mask of confidence as they answered. As he laughed and joked in his fake cowboy confidence, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
Beneath the Great Seal
George had started the night off in high spirits. His election night party in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC had attracted a large, enthusiastic crowd. Rove had told him that the exit polls in key battleground states seemed to be tilted in their favor. Anderson Cooper, one of his least favorite television personalities, had looked unusually unkempt standing outside a rain-soaked polling station in Michigan. All of these seemed to be good signs.
He had been in such a good mood from these developments that he had missed the first signs of distress, of the sea liner hitting the iceberg. There was not an immediate call for his victory, as Card had predicted, and every news update seemed to remove victory further from his grasp. Swing states tilted right, then left, then further left still. Votes from cities washed away at their margins elsewhere. He caught Rove nervously cleaning his fingernails with his teeth the one time he emerged from his makeshift green room. He shot the man a thumbs up before grabbing a slice of pizza and scampering back to his makeshift green room to hide. He needed to keep his spirits up. He needed to keep smiling.
He was still forcing himself to smile by 2:00 AM. While Fox still held out, CNN and MSNBC had called it: George W. Bush had lost the presidency. There were no words coming out of the muted television in his green room, but he could read their lips just fine. “LOSER. LOSER. LOSER.” Even the crowds at his own party seemed to be sarcastic with their chanting, which reverberated through the building. “DON’T BACK DOWN. DON’T BACK DOWN. BACK—.”
“Sir?”
George forced himself to turn, to look at the intruder with a warm smile instead of bashing in his face with his fist. He gave a light chuckle, “Oh, Blake, how ya holding up?”
Blake Gottesman, his bag man, gave a nervous grimace. “Um, fine, sir. I uh…” He shifted from foot to foot like an overlarge child. Behind his grin, George watched the scene. He wondered what he had ever seen in the child. “Your father called. President B—. I mean—. Uh.”
Blake extended a small, black cellphone from his pocket. George’s smile widened because if he did anything else, he was sure he would scream or break down crying. How had this happened? How had it come to this? In the corner of his eye, he could see the talking heads continue their crusade against him. The whole world was determined to tear him down and now Poppy…
The thought of his father caused all the anger in him to melt into something far more awful and pathetic.
“Well, heck, thanks. I suppose I oughta see what’s got his goat.”
He took the phone from Blake as the boy retreated to the hall. He stared for a moment at the black device and then, before he could think twice, took it off hold.
“Looks like your luck finally ran out, Junior,” came the crackle of a voice through the receiver.
George’s voice was not his campaign-trained, cowboy twang but something childish. Cloying. “It wasn’t luck, Poppy. I worked hard.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“And we don’t know it’s over yet. There’s still votes to be counted in—.”
“No, George, there’s not. Jeb can’t bail you out of this one,” There was a long pause. George thought he could hear the clinking of a glass being set on a table followed by a sigh. “What a goddamn mess. What a waste.”
George said nothing.
“A generation of political capital squandered on idiot ambitions. If you had listened to me at any point in the last four years, we wouldn’t be here now. I should have known after Cheney weaseled his way onto the ticket, after the shitshow you pulled with North Korea…”
George stared intensely at his feet. He could actually feel himself sinking, could see the fragments of his presidency floating on the waves and turning into junk.
“Your brother never would have gotten himself here.”
“Poppy, I—.” There was so much he wanted to say, but instead he heard himself mutter, “I know.”
“Well, at least you’re finally being honest with yourself. Christ.” Another pause. Another clink of the glass. “I guess we have work to do. I’m sure Rove’s people will have you doing all kinds of tricks tonight to keep the people at your election party from rioting, but Jeb and I will call tomorrow to figure out next steps. Just don’t screw up anything else before we can talk again, okay?”
Bush nodded and then, aware that it wouldn’t carry, spoke into the phone. “Okay, Poppy. I should probably go now.” He rubbed his face. “I love you. Make sure to tell mother I said the same to her.”
Through the static, there was a grunt. “Okay, George. Night.”
The line went dead. George stood in silence in his room for several minutes, wallowing in his desolation. Then, slowly, he reassembled his mask of confidence. He forced himself to stroll out his door, past Blake and Rove and throngs of pitying aides. He spoke briefly with his handlers about what to say to the crowd and allowed a woman to fix his smeared make-up. When all was done, he found Laura, looped his arm into her’s, and pecked her on the cheek—a gesture he had once seen his father do. Then, without any further hesitation, George stepped out onto the stage before the disappointed crowd. Blinded by the stage lights, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
`) // idk how to add playlists but to do that you create a new playlist in code1 with just that song and put changePlaylist(nameOfYourEndingPlaylist) right here //e.image = "" e.executable.push([0, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.imgur.com/w6UHiD6.png'})]) const clintonWin = new Playlist(); const clintonWinSong = new Song( "Not Ready To Make Nice", "The Chicks", "https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/8/8d/Dixie_Chicks_-_Not_Ready_to_Make_Nice.png", "https://audio.jukehost.co.uk/cJegQbtaTl4GPIdUIu7kaEyRiu8bLFWT" ); clintonWin.addSong(clintonWinSong); changePlaylist(clintonWin); } if (quickstats[0] <= 268 && quickstats[0] >= 139 && Dem == 2) { // Defeat - Gore e.pages.push(`
Beneath the Great Seal
George had started the night off in high spirits. His election night party in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC had attracted a large, enthusiastic crowd. Rove had told him that the exit polls in key battleground states seemed to be tilted in their favor. Anderson Cooper, one of his least favorite television personalities, had looked unusually unkempt standing outside a rain-soaked polling station in Michigan. All of these seemed to be good signs.
He had been in such a good mood from these developments that he had missed the first signs of distress, of the sea liner hitting the iceberg. There was not an immediate call for his victory, as Card had predicted, and every news update seemed to remove victory further from his grasp. Swing states tilted right, then left, then further left still. Votes from cities washed away at their margins elsewhere. He caught Rove nervously cleaning his fingernails with his teeth the one time he emerged from his makeshift green room. He shot the man a thumbs up before grabbing a slice of pizza and scampering back to his makeshift green room to hide. He needed to keep his spirits up. He needed to keep smiling.
He was still forcing himself to smile by 2:00 AM. While Fox still held out, CNN and MSNBC had called it: George W. Bush had lost the presidency. There were no words coming out of the muted television in his green room, but he could read their lips just fine. “LOSER. LOSER. LOSER.” Even the crowds at his own party seemed to be sarcastic with their chanting, which reverberated through the building. “DON’T BACK DOWN. DON’T BACK DOWN. BACK—.”
“Sir?”
George forced himself to turn, to look at the intruder with a warm smile instead of bashing in his face with his fist. He gave a light chuckle, “Oh, Blake, how ya holding up?”
Blake Gottesman, his bag man, gave a nervous grimace. “Um, fine, sir. I uh…” He shifted from foot to foot like an overlarge child. Behind his grin, George watched the scene. He wondered what he had ever seen in the child. “Your father called. President B—. I mean—. Uh.”
Blake extended a small, black cellphone from his pocket. George’s smile widened because if he did anything else, he was sure he would scream or break down crying. How had this happened? How had it come to this? In the corner of his eye, he could see the talking heads continue their crusade against him. The whole world was determined to tear him down and now Poppy…
The thought of his father caused all the anger in him to melt into something far more awful and pathetic.
“Well, heck, thanks. I suppose I oughta see what’s got his goat.”
He took the phone from Blake as the boy retreated to the hall. He stared for a moment at the black device and then, before he could think twice, took it off hold.
“Looks like your luck finally ran out, Junior,” came the crackle of a voice through the receiver.
George’s voice was not his campaign-trained, cowboy twang but something childish. Cloying. “It wasn’t luck, Poppy. I worked hard.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“And we don’t know it’s over yet. There’s still votes to be counted in—.”
“No, George, there’s not. Jeb can’t bail you out of this one,” There was a long pause. George thought he could hear the clinking of a glass being set on a table followed by a sigh. “What a goddamn mess. What a waste.”
George said nothing.
“A generation of political capital squandered on idiot ambitions. If you had listened to me at any point in the last four years, we wouldn’t be here now. I should have known after Cheney weaseled his way onto the ticket, after the shitshow you pulled with North Korea…”
George stared intensely at his feet. He could actually feel himself sinking, could see the fragments of his presidency floating on the waves and turning into junk.
“Your brother never would have gotten himself here.”
“Poppy, I—.” There was so much he wanted to say, but instead he heard himself mutter, “I know.”
“Well, at least you’re finally being honest with yourself. Christ.” Another pause. Another clink of the glass. “I guess we have work to do. I’m sure Rove’s people will have you doing all kinds of tricks tonight to keep the people at your election party from rioting, but Jeb and I will call tomorrow to figure out next steps. Just don’t screw up anything else before we can talk again, okay?”
Bush nodded and then, aware that it wouldn’t carry, spoke into the phone. “Okay, Poppy. I should probably go now.” He rubbed his face. “I love you. Make sure to tell mother I said the same to her.”
Through the static, there was a grunt. “Okay, George. Night.”
The line went dead. George stood in silence in his room for several minutes, wallowing in his desolation. Then, slowly, he reassembled his mask of confidence. He forced himself to stroll out his door, past Blake and Rove and throngs of pitying aides. He spoke briefly with his handlers about what to say to the crowd and allowed a woman to fix his smeared make-up. When all was done, he found Laura, looped his arm into her’s, and pecked her on the cheek—a gesture he had once seen his father do. Then, without any further hesitation, George stepped out onto the stage before the disappointed crowd. Blinded by the stage lights, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
Beneath the Great Seal
George had started the night off in high spirits. His election night party in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC had attracted a large, enthusiastic crowd. Rove had told him that the exit polls in key battleground states seemed to be tilted in their favor. Anderson Cooper, one of his least favorite television personalities, had looked unusually unkempt standing outside a rain-soaked polling station in Michigan. All of these seemed to be good signs.
He had been in such a good mood from these developments that he had missed the first signs of distress, of the sea liner hitting the iceberg. There was not an immediate call for his victory, as Card had predicted, and every news update seemed to remove victory further from his grasp. Swing states tilted right, then left, then further left still. Votes from cities washed away at their margins elsewhere. He caught Rove nervously cleaning his fingernails with his teeth the one time he emerged from his makeshift green room. He shot the man a thumbs up before grabbing a slice of pizza and scampering back to his makeshift green room to hide. He needed to keep his spirits up. He needed to keep smiling.
He was still forcing himself to smile by 2:00 AM. While Fox still held out, CNN and MSNBC had called it: George W. Bush had lost the presidency. There were no words coming out of the muted television in his green room, but he could read their lips just fine. “LOSER. LOSER. LOSER.” Even the crowds at his own party seemed to be sarcastic with their chanting, which reverberated through the building. “DON’T BACK DOWN. DON’T BACK DOWN. BACK—.”
“Sir?”
George forced himself to turn, to look at the intruder with a warm smile instead of bashing in his face with his fist. He gave a light chuckle, “Oh, Blake, how ya holding up?”
Blake Gottesman, his bag man, gave a nervous grimace. “Um, fine, sir. I uh…” He shifted from foot to foot like an overlarge child. Behind his grin, George watched the scene. He wondered what he had ever seen in the child. “Your father called. President B—. I mean—. Uh.”
Blake extended a small, black cellphone from his pocket. George’s smile widened because if he did anything else, he was sure he would scream or break down crying. How had this happened? How had it come to this? In the corner of his eye, he could see the talking heads continue their crusade against him. The whole world was determined to tear him down and now Poppy…
The thought of his father caused all the anger in him to melt into something far more awful and pathetic.
“Well, heck, thanks. I suppose I oughta see what’s got his goat.”
He took the phone from Blake as the boy retreated to the hall. He stared for a moment at the black device and then, before he could think twice, took it off hold.
“Looks like your luck finally ran out, Junior,” came the crackle of a voice through the receiver.
George’s voice was not his campaign-trained, cowboy twang but something childish. Cloying. “It wasn’t luck, Poppy. I worked hard.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“And we don’t know it’s over yet. There’s still votes to be counted in—.”
“No, George, there’s not. Jeb can’t bail you out of this one,” There was a long pause. George thought he could hear the clinking of a glass being set on a table followed by a sigh. “What a goddamn mess. What a waste.”
George said nothing.
“A generation of political capital squandered on idiot ambitions. If you had listened to me at any point in the last four years, we wouldn’t be here now. I should have known after Cheney weaseled his way onto the ticket, after the shitshow you pulled with North Korea…”
George stared intensely at his feet. He could actually feel himself sinking, could see the fragments of his presidency floating on the waves and turning into junk.
“Your brother never would have gotten himself here.”
“Poppy, I—.” There was so much he wanted to say, but instead he heard himself mutter, “I know.”
“Well, at least you’re finally being honest with yourself. Christ.” Another pause. Another clink of the glass. “I guess we have work to do. I’m sure Rove’s people will have you doing all kinds of tricks tonight to keep the people at your election party from rioting, but Jeb and I will call tomorrow to figure out next steps. Just don’t screw up anything else before we can talk again, okay?”
Bush nodded and then, aware that it wouldn’t carry, spoke into the phone. “Okay, Poppy. I should probably go now.” He rubbed his face. “I love you. Make sure to tell mother I said the same to her.”
Through the static, there was a grunt. “Okay, George. Night.”
The line went dead. George stood in silence in his room for several minutes, wallowing in his desolation. Then, slowly, he reassembled his mask of confidence. He forced himself to stroll out his door, past Blake and Rove and throngs of pitying aides. He spoke briefly with his handlers about what to say to the crowd and allowed a woman to fix his smeared make-up. When all was done, he found Laura, looped his arm into her’s, and pecked her on the cheek—a gesture he had once seen his father do. Then, without any further hesitation, George stepped out onto the stage before the disappointed crowd. Blinded by the stage lights, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
Beneath the Great Seal
George had started the night off in high spirits. His election night party in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC had attracted a large, enthusiastic crowd. Rove had told him that the exit polls in key battleground states seemed to be tilted in their favor. Anderson Cooper, one of his least favorite television personalities, had looked unusually unkempt standing outside a rain-soaked polling station in Michigan. All of these seemed to be good signs.
He had been in such a good mood from these developments that he had missed the first signs of distress, of the sea liner hitting the iceberg. There was not an immediate call for his victory, as Card had predicted, and every news update seemed to remove victory further from his grasp. Swing states tilted right, then left, then further left still. Votes from cities washed away at their margins elsewhere. He caught Rove nervously cleaning his fingernails with his teeth the one time he emerged from his makeshift green room. He shot the man a thumbs up before grabbing a slice of pizza and scampering back to his makeshift green room to hide. He needed to keep his spirits up. He needed to keep smiling.
He was still forcing himself to smile by 2:00 AM. While Fox still held out, CNN and MSNBC had called it: George W. Bush had lost the presidency. There were no words coming out of the muted television in his green room, but he could read their lips just fine. “LOSER. LOSER. LOSER.” Even the crowds at his own party seemed to be sarcastic with their chanting, which reverberated through the building. “DON’T BACK DOWN. DON’T BACK DOWN. BACK—.”
“Sir?”
George forced himself to turn, to look at the intruder with a warm smile instead of bashing in his face with his fist. He gave a light chuckle, “Oh, Blake, how ya holding up?”
Blake Gottesman, his bag man, gave a nervous grimace. “Um, fine, sir. I uh…” He shifted from foot to foot like an overlarge child. Behind his grin, George watched the scene. He wondered what he had ever seen in the child. “Your father called. President B—. I mean—. Uh.”
Blake extended a small, black cellphone from his pocket. George’s smile widened because if he did anything else, he was sure he would scream or break down crying. How had this happened? How had it come to this? In the corner of his eye, he could see the talking heads continue their crusade against him. The whole world was determined to tear him down and now Poppy…
The thought of his father caused all the anger in him to melt into something far more awful and pathetic.
“Well, heck, thanks. I suppose I oughta see what’s got his goat.”
He took the phone from Blake as the boy retreated to the hall. He stared for a moment at the black device and then, before he could think twice, took it off hold.
“Looks like your luck finally ran out, Junior,” came the crackle of a voice through the receiver.
George’s voice was not his campaign-trained, cowboy twang but something childish. Cloying. “It wasn’t luck, Poppy. I worked hard.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“And we don’t know it’s over yet. There’s still votes to be counted in—.”
“No, George, there’s not. Jeb can’t bail you out of this one,” There was a long pause. George thought he could hear the clinking of a glass being set on a table followed by a sigh. “What a goddamn mess. What a waste.”
George said nothing.
“A generation of political capital squandered on idiot ambitions. If you had listened to me at any point in the last four years, we wouldn’t be here now. I should have known after Cheney weaseled his way onto the ticket, after the shitshow you pulled with North Korea…”
George stared intensely at his feet. He could actually feel himself sinking, could see the fragments of his presidency floating on the waves and turning into junk.
“Your brother never would have gotten himself here.”
“Poppy, I—.” There was so much he wanted to say, but instead he heard himself mutter, “I know.”
“Well, at least you’re finally being honest with yourself. Christ.” Another pause. Another clink of the glass. “I guess we have work to do. I’m sure Rove’s people will have you doing all kinds of tricks tonight to keep the people at your election party from rioting, but Jeb and I will call tomorrow to figure out next steps. Just don’t screw up anything else before we can talk again, okay?”
Bush nodded and then, aware that it wouldn’t carry, spoke into the phone. “Okay, Poppy. I should probably go now.” He rubbed his face. “I love you. Make sure to tell mother I said the same to her.”
Through the static, there was a grunt. “Okay, George. Night.”
The line went dead. George stood in silence in his room for several minutes, wallowing in his desolation. Then, slowly, he reassembled his mask of confidence. He forced himself to stroll out his door, past Blake and Rove and throngs of pitying aides. He spoke briefly with his handlers about what to say to the crowd and allowed a woman to fix his smeared make-up. When all was done, he found Laura, looped his arm into her’s, and pecked her on the cheek—a gesture he had once seen his father do. Then, without any further hesitation, George stepped out onto the stage before the disappointed crowd. Blinded by the stage lights, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
Beneath the Great Seal
George had started the night off in high spirits. His election night party in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC had attracted a large, enthusiastic crowd. Rove had told him that the exit polls in key battleground states seemed to be tilted in their favor. Anderson Cooper, one of his least favorite television personalities, had looked unusually unkempt standing outside a rain-soaked polling station in Michigan. All of these seemed to be good signs.
He had been in such a good mood from these developments that he had missed the first signs of distress, of the sea liner hitting the iceberg. There was not an immediate call for his victory, as Card had predicted, and every news update seemed to remove victory further from his grasp. Swing states tilted right, then left, then further left still. Votes from cities washed away at their margins elsewhere. He caught Rove nervously cleaning his fingernails with his teeth the one time he emerged from his makeshift green room. He shot the man a thumbs up before grabbing a slice of pizza and scampering back to his makeshift green room to hide. He needed to keep his spirits up. He needed to keep smiling.
He was still forcing himself to smile by 2:00 AM. While Fox still held out, CNN and MSNBC had called it: George W. Bush had lost the presidency. There were no words coming out of the muted television in his green room, but he could read their lips just fine. “LOSER. LOSER. LOSER.” Even the crowds at his own party seemed to be sarcastic with their chanting, which reverberated through the building. “DON’T BACK DOWN. DON’T BACK DOWN. BACK—.”
“Sir?”
George forced himself to turn, to look at the intruder with a warm smile instead of bashing in his face with his fist. He gave a light chuckle, “Oh, Blake, how ya holding up?”
Blake Gottesman, his bag man, gave a nervous grimace. “Um, fine, sir. I uh…” He shifted from foot to foot like an overlarge child. Behind his grin, George watched the scene. He wondered what he had ever seen in the child. “Your father called. President B—. I mean—. Uh.”
Blake extended a small, black cellphone from his pocket. George’s smile widened because if he did anything else, he was sure he would scream or break down crying. How had this happened? How had it come to this? In the corner of his eye, he could see the talking heads continue their crusade against him. The whole world was determined to tear him down and now Poppy…
The thought of his father caused all the anger in him to melt into something far more awful and pathetic.
“Well, heck, thanks. I suppose I oughta see what’s got his goat.”
He took the phone from Blake as the boy retreated to the hall. He stared for a moment at the black device and then, before he could think twice, took it off hold.
“Looks like your luck finally ran out, Junior,” came the crackle of a voice through the receiver.
George’s voice was not his campaign-trained, cowboy twang but something childish. Cloying. “It wasn’t luck, Poppy. I worked hard.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“And we don’t know it’s over yet. There’s still votes to be counted in—.”
“No, George, there’s not. Jeb can’t bail you out of this one,” There was a long pause. George thought he could hear the clinking of a glass being set on a table followed by a sigh. “What a goddamn mess. What a waste.”
George said nothing.
“A generation of political capital squandered on idiot ambitions. If you had listened to me at any point in the last four years, we wouldn’t be here now. I should have known after Cheney weaseled his way onto the ticket, after the shitshow you pulled with North Korea…”
George stared intensely at his feet. He could actually feel himself sinking, could see the fragments of his presidency floating on the waves and turning into junk.
“Your brother never would have gotten himself here.”
“Poppy, I—.” There was so much he wanted to say, but instead he heard himself mutter, “I know.”
“Well, at least you’re finally being honest with yourself. Christ.” Another pause. Another clink of the glass. “I guess we have work to do. I’m sure Rove’s people will have you doing all kinds of tricks tonight to keep the people at your election party from rioting, but Jeb and I will call tomorrow to figure out next steps. Just don’t screw up anything else before we can talk again, okay?”
Bush nodded and then, aware that it wouldn’t carry, spoke into the phone. “Okay, Poppy. I should probably go now.” He rubbed his face. “I love you. Make sure to tell mother I said the same to her.”
Through the static, there was a grunt. “Okay, George. Night.”
The line went dead. George stood in silence in his room for several minutes, wallowing in his desolation. Then, slowly, he reassembled his mask of confidence. He forced himself to stroll out his door, past Blake and Rove and throngs of pitying aides. He spoke briefly with his handlers about what to say to the crowd and allowed a woman to fix his smeared make-up. When all was done, he found Laura, looped his arm into her’s, and pecked her on the cheek—a gesture he had once seen his father do. Then, without any further hesitation, George stepped out onto the stage before the disappointed crowd. Blinded by the stage lights, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
Beneath the Great Seal
George had started the night off in high spirits. His election night party in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC had attracted a large, enthusiastic crowd. Rove had told him that the exit polls in key battleground states seemed to be tilted in their favor. Anderson Cooper, one of his least favorite television personalities, had looked unusually unkempt standing outside a rain-soaked polling station in Michigan. All of these seemed to be good signs.
He had been in such a good mood from these developments that he had missed the first signs of distress, of the sea liner hitting the iceberg. There was not an immediate call for his victory, as Card had predicted, and every news update seemed to remove victory further from his grasp. Swing states tilted right, then left, then further left still. Votes from cities washed away at their margins elsewhere. He caught Rove nervously cleaning his fingernails with his teeth the one time he emerged from his makeshift green room. He shot the man a thumbs up before grabbing a slice of pizza and scampering back to his makeshift green room to hide. He needed to keep his spirits up. He needed to keep smiling.
He was still forcing himself to smile by 2:00 AM. While Fox still held out, CNN and MSNBC had called it: George W. Bush had lost the presidency. There were no words coming out of the muted television in his green room, but he could read their lips just fine. “LOSER. LOSER. LOSER.” Even the crowds at his own party seemed to be sarcastic with their chanting, which reverberated through the building. “DON’T BACK DOWN. DON’T BACK DOWN. BACK—.”
“Sir?”
George forced himself to turn, to look at the intruder with a warm smile instead of bashing in his face with his fist. He gave a light chuckle, “Oh, Blake, how ya holding up?”
Blake Gottesman, his bag man, gave a nervous grimace. “Um, fine, sir. I uh…” He shifted from foot to foot like an overlarge child. Behind his grin, George watched the scene. He wondered what he had ever seen in the child. “Your father called. President B—. I mean—. Uh.”
Blake extended a small, black cellphone from his pocket. George’s smile widened because if he did anything else, he was sure he would scream or break down crying. How had this happened? How had it come to this? In the corner of his eye, he could see the talking heads continue their crusade against him. The whole world was determined to tear him down and now Poppy…
The thought of his father caused all the anger in him to melt into something far more awful and pathetic.
“Well, heck, thanks. I suppose I oughta see what’s got his goat.”
He took the phone from Blake as the boy retreated to the hall. He stared for a moment at the black device and then, before he could think twice, took it off hold.
“Looks like your luck finally ran out, Junior,” came the crackle of a voice through the receiver.
George’s voice was not his campaign-trained, cowboy twang but something childish. Cloying. “It wasn’t luck, Poppy. I worked hard.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“And we don’t know it’s over yet. There’s still votes to be counted in—.”
“No, George, there’s not. Jeb can’t bail you out of this one,” There was a long pause. George thought he could hear the clinking of a glass being set on a table followed by a sigh. “What a goddamn mess. What a waste.”
George said nothing.
“A generation of political capital squandered on idiot ambitions. If you had listened to me at any point in the last four years, we wouldn’t be here now. I should have known after Cheney weaseled his way onto the ticket, after the shitshow you pulled with North Korea…”
George stared intensely at his feet. He could actually feel himself sinking, could see the fragments of his presidency floating on the waves and turning into junk.
“Your brother never would have gotten himself here.”
“Poppy, I—.” There was so much he wanted to say, but instead he heard himself mutter, “I know.”
“Well, at least you’re finally being honest with yourself. Christ.” Another pause. Another clink of the glass. “I guess we have work to do. I’m sure Rove’s people will have you doing all kinds of tricks tonight to keep the people at your election party from rioting, but Jeb and I will call tomorrow to figure out next steps. Just don’t screw up anything else before we can talk again, okay?”
Bush nodded and then, aware that it wouldn’t carry, spoke into the phone. “Okay, Poppy. I should probably go now.” He rubbed his face. “I love you. Make sure to tell mother I said the same to her.”
Through the static, there was a grunt. “Okay, George. Night.”
The line went dead. George stood in silence in his room for several minutes, wallowing in his desolation. Then, slowly, he reassembled his mask of confidence. He forced himself to stroll out his door, past Blake and Rove and throngs of pitying aides. He spoke briefly with his handlers about what to say to the crowd and allowed a woman to fix his smeared make-up. When all was done, he found Laura, looped his arm into her’s, and pecked her on the cheek—a gesture he had once seen his father do. Then, without any further hesitation, George stepped out onto the stage before the disappointed crowd. Blinded by the stage lights, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
Beneath the Great Seal
George had started the night off in high spirits. His election night party in the Reagan Building in Downtown DC had attracted a large, enthusiastic crowd. Rove had told him that the exit polls in key battleground states seemed to be tilted in their favor. Anderson Cooper, one of his least favorite television personalities, had looked unusually unkempt standing outside a rain-soaked polling station in Michigan. All of these seemed to be good signs.
He had been in such a good mood from these developments that he had missed the first signs of distress, of the sea liner hitting the iceberg. There was not an immediate call for his victory, as Card had predicted, and every news update seemed to remove victory further from his grasp. Swing states tilted right, then left, then further left still. Votes from cities washed away at their margins elsewhere. He caught Rove nervously cleaning his fingernails with his teeth the one time he emerged from his makeshift green room. He shot the man a thumbs up before grabbing a slice of pizza and scampering back to his makeshift green room to hide. He needed to keep his spirits up. He needed to keep smiling.
He was still forcing himself to smile by 2:00 AM. While Fox still held out, CNN and MSNBC had called it: George W. Bush had lost the presidency. There were no words coming out of the muted television in his green room, but he could read their lips just fine. “LOSER. LOSER. LOSER.” Even the crowds at his own party seemed to be sarcastic with their chanting, which reverberated through the building. “DON’T BACK DOWN. DON’T BACK DOWN. BACK—.”
“Sir?”
George forced himself to turn, to look at the intruder with a warm smile instead of bashing in his face with his fist. He gave a light chuckle, “Oh, Blake, how ya holding up?”
Blake Gottesman, his bag man, gave a nervous grimace. “Um, fine, sir. I uh…” He shifted from foot to foot like an overlarge child. Behind his grin, George watched the scene. He wondered what he had ever seen in the child. “Your father called. President B—. I mean—. Uh.”
Blake extended a small, black cellphone from his pocket. George’s smile widened because if he did anything else, he was sure he would scream or break down crying. How had this happened? How had it come to this? In the corner of his eye, he could see the talking heads continue their crusade against him. The whole world was determined to tear him down and now Poppy…
The thought of his father caused all the anger in him to melt into something far more awful and pathetic.
“Well, heck, thanks. I suppose I oughta see what’s got his goat.”
He took the phone from Blake as the boy retreated to the hall. He stared for a moment at the black device and then, before he could think twice, took it off hold.
“Looks like your luck finally ran out, Junior,” came the crackle of a voice through the receiver.
George’s voice was not his campaign-trained, cowboy twang but something childish. Cloying. “It wasn’t luck, Poppy. I worked hard.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“And we don’t know it’s over yet. There’s still votes to be counted in—.”
“No, George, there’s not. Jeb can’t bail you out of this one,” There was a long pause. George thought he could hear the clinking of a glass being set on a table followed by a sigh. “What a goddamn mess. What a waste.”
George said nothing.
“A generation of political capital squandered on idiot ambitions. If you had listened to me at any point in the last four years, we wouldn’t be here now. I should have known after Cheney weaseled his way onto the ticket, after the shitshow you pulled with North Korea…”
George stared intensely at his feet. He could actually feel himself sinking, could see the fragments of his presidency floating on the waves and turning into junk.
“Your brother never would have gotten himself here.”
“Poppy, I—.” There was so much he wanted to say, but instead he heard himself mutter, “I know.”
“Well, at least you’re finally being honest with yourself. Christ.” Another pause. Another clink of the glass. “I guess we have work to do. I’m sure Rove’s people will have you doing all kinds of tricks tonight to keep the people at your election party from rioting, but Jeb and I will call tomorrow to figure out next steps. Just don’t screw up anything else before we can talk again, okay?”
Bush nodded and then, aware that it wouldn’t carry, spoke into the phone. “Okay, Poppy. I should probably go now.” He rubbed his face. “I love you. Make sure to tell mother I said the same to her.”
Through the static, there was a grunt. “Okay, George. Night.”
The line went dead. George stood in silence in his room for several minutes, wallowing in his desolation. Then, slowly, he reassembled his mask of confidence. He forced himself to stroll out his door, past Blake and Rove and throngs of pitying aides. He spoke briefly with his handlers about what to say to the crowd and allowed a woman to fix his smeared make-up. When all was done, he found Laura, looped his arm into her’s, and pecked her on the cheek—a gesture he had once seen his father do. Then, without any further hesitation, George stepped out onto the stage before the disappointed crowd. Blinded by the stage lights, George tried not to imagine what the future would hold.
To Labor in Government
A calamity had taken place. A catastrophe. A car crash in slow motion.
It hadn’t started like this. Early in the night, the obvious states had come in. Alabama and New York had slotted into their obvious columns. The crowds at the George W. Bush Election Night Party inside the Reagan Building had watched as Republican and Democratic electoral votes grew higher and higher. They were there as the nation tiptoed to a precipice and then, at some point past 2:00 AM, flung itself off it. Though CNN, FOX, and MSNBC had refused to call it, the old fogeys at CBS had taken a bold step into the unknown—the election was tied 269-269. For the first time since 1800, the House of Representatives would pick the president.
The enormity of the event had not yet reached those gathered in the Reagan Building. Decked in their “W” hats and American flag-patterned outfits, they looked confused more than anything. George W. Bush could see them murmuring through a tiny monitor in his makeshift green room. They were growing anxious as word spread that his opponent was planning to address their own supporters within the next few minutes. His own silence was becoming noticeable, concerning, but he could not move himself to act. For the first time in a long time, he felt sapped of his certainty.
“Sir?”
George jumped at the sudden intrusion. He spun to see, not Rove, not his running mate, but Blake Gottesman—his bag man. The boy, gangly with spots of acne, shifted his weight from side to side like a child trying to hold in his bladder.
“Sorry for bothering, Mr. President, but um…” George became aware of a phone in the boy’s hand. His mind jumped between a dozen possibilities. “It’s your father. You told me to tell you if he called tonight?”
George blinked. Then, as if in a dream, he beckoned for the boy to approach and took the phone from him with a shaky hand. Blake took a step backward and then vanished from the green room as George took the call off hold.
“Hi Poppy,” said George. His voice seemed distant.
From thousands of miles away came the voice of George’s father, harsh and clipped. “I’ve been on the phone with Jeb. He’s been talking with his people and he thinks that ABC is right. This thing’s going for a tie or, at the very least, an extended recount.” There was a rumble that George recognized as a sigh. “This is worse than 2000. What a goddamn mess.”
“We don’t know that yet,” murmured George. His voice seemed strangely child-like, sullen. He had a brief flash of being back in elementary school, trying to explain his report card. “There’s still absentee ballots. There’s still military ballots, you know what I’m saying? There could be fraud. K-Karl says—.”
“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. ‘Voter fraud.’” The voice was high-pitched, mocking. “Give me a break.”
“O-okay. Maybe there’s not fraud. Maybe… I mean, we don’t gotta resignate—. I mean, I we don’t have to resign ourselves to this. There’s gonna be a run-off. We could still win in the House. That’s what happens next, right? We can still come out on top.”
He was so desperate. If Poppy could just say one positive thing, if he could give him one reassurance, everything would be okay.
Instead, there was a long and deafening silence on the other end of the receiver. “No, George. The Democrats are probably going to win the House.” He let the sentence sit there, moldering. “They’ll get sworn in and then, on January 6th, they’ll vote down the line for the Democrat. You will lose. You will be evicted from the White House. There is no reprieve coming. Christ is not going to descend from the heavens to save you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He was quiet. He remembered how he’d come home to Poppy drunk one night when he was in his 30s. He remembered the disgusted look on his father’s face.
“Answer me when I talk to you. Do you understand?”
George swallowed. “Yeah… Poppy. I understand.”
“Good. Jeb and I will call you tomorrow about how we can play this, but what’s important right now is you get out there. You tell the people at the Reagan Center that these results are not what you wanted but you are following them closely and you will respect the will of the voters, whatever that may be. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, if you ever listened to me, you would have done this hours ago.” Poppy gave a huff. "Just get out there before things get any worse. Don’t forget, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
And then, without ceremony, Poppy hung up. Bush allowed himself to listen to the silence for several moments. Then, he reconstructed his smile. He pretended to be jovial as he walked through rows of sullen aides. He wrapped his arm around Laura and kissed her gently on the cheek, a gesture he’d seen his father do many times before. Then, he stepped out onto the stage before the crowd. He could hear their voices but, with the stage lights blaring, he could not see their faces.
To Labor in Government
A calamity had taken place. A catastrophe. A car crash in slow motion.
It hadn’t started like this. Early in the night, the obvious states had come in. Alabama and New York had slotted into their obvious columns. The crowds at the George W. Bush Election Night Party inside the Reagan Building had watched as Republican and Democratic electoral votes grew higher and higher. They were there as the nation tiptoed to a precipice and then, at some point past 2:00 AM, flung itself off it. Though CNN, FOX, and MSNBC had refused to call it, the old fogeys at CBS had taken a bold step into the unknown—the election was tied 269-269. For the first time since 1800, the House of Representatives would pick the president.
The enormity of the event had not yet reached those gathered in the Reagan Building. Decked in their “W” hats and American flag-patterned outfits, they looked confused more than anything. George W. Bush could see them murmuring through a tiny monitor in his makeshift green room. They were growing anxious as word spread that his opponent was planning to address their own supporters within the next few minutes. His own silence was becoming noticeable, concerning, but he could not move himself to act. For the first time in a long time, he felt sapped of his certainty.
“Sir?”
George jumped at the sudden intrusion. He spun to see, not Rove, not his running mate, but Blake Gottesman—his bag man. The boy, gangly with spots of acne, shifted his weight from side to side like a child trying to hold in his bladder.
“Sorry for bothering, Mr. President, but um…” George became aware of a phone in the boy’s hand. His mind jumped between a dozen possibilities. “It’s your father. You told me to tell you if he called tonight?”
George blinked. Then, as if in a dream, he beckoned for the boy to approach and took the phone from him with a shaky hand. Blake took a step backward and then vanished from the green room as George took the call off hold.
“Hi Poppy,” said George. His voice seemed distant.
From thousands of miles away came the voice of George’s father, harsh and clipped. “I’ve been on the phone with Jeb. He’s been talking with his people and he thinks that ABC is right. This thing’s going for a tie or, at the very least, an extended recount.” There was a rumble that George recognized as a sigh. “This is worse than 2000. What a goddamn mess.”
“We don’t know that yet,” murmured George. His voice seemed strangely child-like, sullen. He had a brief flash of being back in elementary school, trying to explain his report card. “There’s still absentee ballots. There’s still military ballots, you know what I’m saying? There could be fraud. K-Karl says—.”
“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. ‘Voter fraud.’” The voice was high-pitched, mocking. “Give me a break.”
“O-okay. Maybe there’s not fraud. Maybe… I mean, we don’t gotta resignate—. I mean, I we don’t have to resign ourselves to this. There’s gonna be a run-off. We could still win in the House. That’s what happens next, right? We can still come out on top.”
He was so desperate. If Poppy could just say one positive thing, if he could give him one reassurance, everything would be okay.
Instead, there was a long and deafening silence on the other end of the receiver. “No, George. The Democrats are probably going to win the House.” He let the sentence sit there, moldering. “They’ll get sworn in and then, on January 6th, they’ll vote down the line for the Democrat. You will lose. You will be evicted from the White House. There is no reprieve coming. Christ is not going to descend from the heavens to save you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He was quiet. He remembered how he’d come home to Poppy drunk one night when he was in his 30s. He remembered the disgusted look on his father’s face.
“Answer me when I talk to you. Do you understand?”
George swallowed. “Yeah… Poppy. I understand.”
“Good. Jeb and I will call you tomorrow about how we can play this, but what’s important right now is you get out there. You tell the people at the Reagan Center that these results are not what you wanted but you are following them closely and you will respect the will of the voters, whatever that may be. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, if you ever listened to me, you would have done this hours ago.” Poppy gave a huff. "Just get out there before things get any worse. Don’t forget, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
And then, without ceremony, Poppy hung up. Bush allowed himself to listen to the silence for several moments. Then, he reconstructed his smile. He pretended to be jovial as he walked through rows of sullen aides. He wrapped his arm around Laura and kissed her gently on the cheek, a gesture he’d seen his father do many times before. Then, he stepped out onto the stage before the crowd. He could hear their voices but, with the stage lights blaring, he could not see their faces.
To Labor in Government
A calamity had taken place. A catastrophe. A car crash in slow motion.
It hadn’t started like this. Early in the night, the obvious states had come in. Alabama and New York had slotted into their obvious columns. The crowds at the George W. Bush Election Night Party inside the Reagan Building had watched as Republican and Democratic electoral votes grew higher and higher. They were there as the nation tiptoed to a precipice and then, at some point past 2:00 AM, flung itself off it. Though CNN, FOX, and MSNBC had refused to call it, the old fogeys at CBS had taken a bold step into the unknown—the election was tied 269-269. For the first time since 1800, the House of Representatives would pick the president.
The enormity of the event had not yet reached those gathered in the Reagan Building. Decked in their “W” hats and American flag-patterned outfits, they looked confused more than anything. George W. Bush could see them murmuring through a tiny monitor in his makeshift green room. They were growing anxious as word spread that his opponent was planning to address their own supporters within the next few minutes. His own silence was becoming noticeable, concerning, but he could not move himself to act. For the first time in a long time, he felt sapped of his certainty.
“Sir?”
George jumped at the sudden intrusion. He spun to see, not Rove, not his running mate, but Blake Gottesman—his bag man. The boy, gangly with spots of acne, shifted his weight from side to side like a child trying to hold in his bladder.
“Sorry for bothering, Mr. President, but um…” George became aware of a phone in the boy’s hand. His mind jumped between a dozen possibilities. “It’s your father. You told me to tell you if he called tonight?”
George blinked. Then, as if in a dream, he beckoned for the boy to approach and took the phone from him with a shaky hand. Blake took a step backward and then vanished from the green room as George took the call off hold.
“Hi Poppy,” said George. His voice seemed distant.
From thousands of miles away came the voice of George’s father, harsh and clipped. “I’ve been on the phone with Jeb. He’s been talking with his people and he thinks that ABC is right. This thing’s going for a tie or, at the very least, an extended recount.” There was a rumble that George recognized as a sigh. “This is worse than 2000. What a goddamn mess.”
“We don’t know that yet,” murmured George. His voice seemed strangely child-like, sullen. He had a brief flash of being back in elementary school, trying to explain his report card. “There’s still absentee ballots. There’s still military ballots, you know what I’m saying? There could be fraud. K-Karl says—.”
“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. ‘Voter fraud.’” The voice was high-pitched, mocking. “Give me a break.”
“O-okay. Maybe there’s not fraud. Maybe… I mean, we don’t gotta resignate—. I mean, I we don’t have to resign ourselves to this. There’s gonna be a run-off. We could still win in the House. That’s what happens next, right? We can still come out on top.”
He was so desperate. If Poppy could just say one positive thing, if he could give him one reassurance, everything would be okay.
Instead, there was a long and deafening silence on the other end of the receiver. “No, George. The Democrats are probably going to win the House.” He let the sentence sit there, moldering. “They’ll get sworn in and then, on January 6th, they’ll vote down the line for the Democrat. You will lose. You will be evicted from the White House. There is no reprieve coming. Christ is not going to descend from the heavens to save you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He was quiet. He remembered how he’d come home to Poppy drunk one night when he was in his 30s. He remembered the disgusted look on his father’s face.
“Answer me when I talk to you. Do you understand?”
George swallowed. “Yeah… Poppy. I understand.”
“Good. Jeb and I will call you tomorrow about how we can play this, but what’s important right now is you get out there. You tell the people at the Reagan Center that these results are not what you wanted but you are following them closely and you will respect the will of the voters, whatever that may be. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, if you ever listened to me, you would have done this hours ago.” Poppy gave a huff. "Just get out there before things get any worse. Don’t forget, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
And then, without ceremony, Poppy hung up. Bush allowed himself to listen to the silence for several moments. Then, he reconstructed his smile. He pretended to be jovial as he walked through rows of sullen aides. He wrapped his arm around Laura and kissed her gently on the cheek, a gesture he’d seen his father do many times before. Then, he stepped out onto the stage before the crowd. He could hear their voices but, with the stage lights blaring, he could not see their faces.
To Labor in Government
A calamity had taken place. A catastrophe. A car crash in slow motion.
It hadn’t started like this. Early in the night, the obvious states had come in. Alabama and New York had slotted into their obvious columns. The crowds at the George W. Bush Election Night Party inside the Reagan Building had watched as Republican and Democratic electoral votes grew higher and higher. They were there as the nation tiptoed to a precipice and then, at some point past 2:00 AM, flung itself off it. Though CNN, FOX, and MSNBC had refused to call it, the old fogeys at CBS had taken a bold step into the unknown—the election was tied 269-269. For the first time since 1800, the House of Representatives would pick the president.
The enormity of the event had not yet reached those gathered in the Reagan Building. Decked in their “W” hats and American flag-patterned outfits, they looked confused more than anything. George W. Bush could see them murmuring through a tiny monitor in his makeshift green room. They were growing anxious as word spread that his opponent was planning to address their own supporters within the next few minutes. His own silence was becoming noticeable, concerning, but he could not move himself to act. For the first time in a long time, he felt sapped of his certainty.
“Sir?”
George jumped at the sudden intrusion. He spun to see, not Rove, not his running mate, but Blake Gottesman—his bag man. The boy, gangly with spots of acne, shifted his weight from side to side like a child trying to hold in his bladder.
“Sorry for bothering, Mr. President, but um…” George became aware of a phone in the boy’s hand. His mind jumped between a dozen possibilities. “It’s your father. You told me to tell you if he called tonight?”
George blinked. Then, as if in a dream, he beckoned for the boy to approach and took the phone from him with a shaky hand. Blake took a step backward and then vanished from the green room as George took the call off hold.
“Hi Poppy,” said George. His voice seemed distant.
From thousands of miles away came the voice of George’s father, harsh and clipped. “I’ve been on the phone with Jeb. He’s been talking with his people and he thinks that ABC is right. This thing’s going for a tie or, at the very least, an extended recount.” There was a rumble that George recognized as a sigh. “This is worse than 2000. What a goddamn mess.”
“We don’t know that yet,” murmured George. His voice seemed strangely child-like, sullen. He had a brief flash of being back in elementary school, trying to explain his report card. “There’s still absentee ballots. There’s still military ballots, you know what I’m saying? There could be fraud. K-Karl says—.”
“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. ‘Voter fraud.’” The voice was high-pitched, mocking. “Give me a break.”
“O-okay. Maybe there’s not fraud. Maybe… I mean, we don’t gotta resignate—. I mean, I we don’t have to resign ourselves to this. There’s gonna be a run-off. We could still win in the House. That’s what happens next, right? We can still come out on top.”
He was so desperate. If Poppy could just say one positive thing, if he could give him one reassurance, everything would be okay.
Instead, there was a long and deafening silence on the other end of the receiver. “No, George. The Democrats are probably going to win the House.” He let the sentence sit there, moldering. “They’ll get sworn in and then, on January 6th, they’ll vote down the line for the Democrat. You will lose. You will be evicted from the White House. There is no reprieve coming. Christ is not going to descend from the heavens to save you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He was quiet. He remembered how he’d come home to Poppy drunk one night when he was in his 30s. He remembered the disgusted look on his father’s face.
“Answer me when I talk to you. Do you understand?”
George swallowed. “Yeah… Poppy. I understand.”
“Good. Jeb and I will call you tomorrow about how we can play this, but what’s important right now is you get out there. You tell the people at the Reagan Center that these results are not what you wanted but you are following them closely and you will respect the will of the voters, whatever that may be. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, if you ever listened to me, you would have done this hours ago.” Poppy gave a huff. "Just get out there before things get any worse. Don’t forget, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
And then, without ceremony, Poppy hung up. Bush allowed himself to listen to the silence for several moments. Then, he reconstructed his smile. He pretended to be jovial as he walked through rows of sullen aides. He wrapped his arm around Laura and kissed her gently on the cheek, a gesture he’d seen his father do many times before. Then, he stepped out onto the stage before the crowd. He could hear their voices but, with the stage lights blaring, he could not see their faces.
To Labor in Government
A calamity had taken place. A catastrophe. A car crash in slow motion.
It hadn’t started like this. Early in the night, the obvious states had come in. Alabama and New York had slotted into their obvious columns. The crowds at the George W. Bush Election Night Party inside the Reagan Building had watched as Republican and Democratic electoral votes grew higher and higher. They were there as the nation tiptoed to a precipice and then, at some point past 2:00 AM, flung itself off it. Though CNN, FOX, and MSNBC had refused to call it, the old fogeys at CBS had taken a bold step into the unknown—the election was tied 269-269. For the first time since 1800, the House of Representatives would pick the president.
The enormity of the event had not yet reached those gathered in the Reagan Building. Decked in their “W” hats and American flag-patterned outfits, they looked confused more than anything. George W. Bush could see them murmuring through a tiny monitor in his makeshift green room. They were growing anxious as word spread that his opponent was planning to address their own supporters within the next few minutes. His own silence was becoming noticeable, concerning, but he could not move himself to act. For the first time in a long time, he felt sapped of his certainty.
“Sir?”
George jumped at the sudden intrusion. He spun to see, not Rove, not his running mate, but Blake Gottesman—his bag man. The boy, gangly with spots of acne, shifted his weight from side to side like a child trying to hold in his bladder.
“Sorry for bothering, Mr. President, but um…” George became aware of a phone in the boy’s hand. His mind jumped between a dozen possibilities. “It’s your father. You told me to tell you if he called tonight?”
George blinked. Then, as if in a dream, he beckoned for the boy to approach and took the phone from him with a shaky hand. Blake took a step backward and then vanished from the green room as George took the call off hold.
“Hi Poppy,” said George. His voice seemed distant.
From thousands of miles away came the voice of George’s father, harsh and clipped. “I’ve been on the phone with Jeb. He’s been talking with his people and he thinks that ABC is right. This thing’s going for a tie or, at the very least, an extended recount.” There was a rumble that George recognized as a sigh. “This is worse than 2000. What a goddamn mess.”
“We don’t know that yet,” murmured George. His voice seemed strangely child-like, sullen. He had a brief flash of being back in elementary school, trying to explain his report card. “There’s still absentee ballots. There’s still military ballots, you know what I’m saying? There could be fraud. K-Karl says—.”
“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. ‘Voter fraud.’” The voice was high-pitched, mocking. “Give me a break.”
“O-okay. Maybe there’s not fraud. Maybe… I mean, we don’t gotta resignate—. I mean, I we don’t have to resign ourselves to this. There’s gonna be a run-off. We could still win in the House. That’s what happens next, right? We can still come out on top.”
He was so desperate. If Poppy could just say one positive thing, if he could give him one reassurance, everything would be okay.
Instead, there was a long and deafening silence on the other end of the receiver. “No, George. The Democrats are probably going to win the House.” He let the sentence sit there, moldering. “They’ll get sworn in and then, on January 6th, they’ll vote down the line for the Democrat. You will lose. You will be evicted from the White House. There is no reprieve coming. Christ is not going to descend from the heavens to save you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He was quiet. He remembered how he’d come home to Poppy drunk one night when he was in his 30s. He remembered the disgusted look on his father’s face.
“Answer me when I talk to you. Do you understand?”
George swallowed. “Yeah… Poppy. I understand.”
“Good. Jeb and I will call you tomorrow about how we can play this, but what’s important right now is you get out there. You tell the people at the Reagan Center that these results are not what you wanted but you are following them closely and you will respect the will of the voters, whatever that may be. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, if you ever listened to me, you would have done this hours ago.” Poppy gave a huff. "Just get out there before things get any worse. Don’t forget, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
And then, without ceremony, Poppy hung up. Bush allowed himself to listen to the silence for several moments. Then, he reconstructed his smile. He pretended to be jovial as he walked through rows of sullen aides. He wrapped his arm around Laura and kissed her gently on the cheek, a gesture he’d seen his father do many times before. Then, he stepped out onto the stage before the crowd. He could hear their voices but, with the stage lights blaring, he could not see their faces.
To Labor in Government
A calamity had taken place. A catastrophe. A car crash in slow motion.
It hadn’t started like this. Early in the night, the obvious states had come in. Alabama and New York had slotted into their obvious columns. The crowds at the George W. Bush Election Night Party inside the Reagan Building had watched as Republican and Democratic electoral votes grew higher and higher. They were there as the nation tiptoed to a precipice and then, at some point past 2:00 AM, flung itself off it. Though CNN, FOX, and MSNBC had refused to call it, the old fogeys at CBS had taken a bold step into the unknown—the election was tied 269-269. For the first time since 1800, the House of Representatives would pick the president.
The enormity of the event had not yet reached those gathered in the Reagan Building. Decked in their “W” hats and American flag-patterned outfits, they looked confused more than anything. George W. Bush could see them murmuring through a tiny monitor in his makeshift green room. They were growing anxious as word spread that his opponent was planning to address their own supporters within the next few minutes. His own silence was becoming noticeable, concerning, but he could not move himself to act. For the first time in a long time, he felt sapped of his certainty.
“Sir?”
George jumped at the sudden intrusion. He spun to see, not Rove, not his running mate, but Blake Gottesman—his bag man. The boy, gangly with spots of acne, shifted his weight from side to side like a child trying to hold in his bladder.
“Sorry for bothering, Mr. President, but um…” George became aware of a phone in the boy’s hand. His mind jumped between a dozen possibilities. “It’s your father. You told me to tell you if he called tonight?”
George blinked. Then, as if in a dream, he beckoned for the boy to approach and took the phone from him with a shaky hand. Blake took a step backward and then vanished from the green room as George took the call off hold.
“Hi Poppy,” said George. His voice seemed distant.
From thousands of miles away came the voice of George’s father, harsh and clipped. “I’ve been on the phone with Jeb. He’s been talking with his people and he thinks that ABC is right. This thing’s going for a tie or, at the very least, an extended recount.” There was a rumble that George recognized as a sigh. “This is worse than 2000. What a goddamn mess.”
“We don’t know that yet,” murmured George. His voice seemed strangely child-like, sullen. He had a brief flash of being back in elementary school, trying to explain his report card. “There’s still absentee ballots. There’s still military ballots, you know what I’m saying? There could be fraud. K-Karl says—.”
“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. ‘Voter fraud.’” The voice was high-pitched, mocking. “Give me a break.”
“O-okay. Maybe there’s not fraud. Maybe… I mean, we don’t gotta resignate—. I mean, I we don’t have to resign ourselves to this. There’s gonna be a run-off. We could still win in the House. That’s what happens next, right? We can still come out on top.”
He was so desperate. If Poppy could just say one positive thing, if he could give him one reassurance, everything would be okay.
Instead, there was a long and deafening silence on the other end of the receiver. “No, George. The Democrats are probably going to win the House.” He let the sentence sit there, moldering. “They’ll get sworn in and then, on January 6th, they’ll vote down the line for the Democrat. You will lose. You will be evicted from the White House. There is no reprieve coming. Christ is not going to descend from the heavens to save you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He was quiet. He remembered how he’d come home to Poppy drunk one night when he was in his 30s. He remembered the disgusted look on his father’s face.
“Answer me when I talk to you. Do you understand?”
George swallowed. “Yeah… Poppy. I understand.”
“Good. Jeb and I will call you tomorrow about how we can play this, but what’s important right now is you get out there. You tell the people at the Reagan Center that these results are not what you wanted but you are following them closely and you will respect the will of the voters, whatever that may be. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, if you ever listened to me, you would have done this hours ago.” Poppy gave a huff. "Just get out there before things get any worse. Don’t forget, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
And then, without ceremony, Poppy hung up. Bush allowed himself to listen to the silence for several moments. Then, he reconstructed his smile. He pretended to be jovial as he walked through rows of sullen aides. He wrapped his arm around Laura and kissed her gently on the cheek, a gesture he’d seen his father do many times before. Then, he stepped out onto the stage before the crowd. He could hear their voices but, with the stage lights blaring, he could not see their faces.
To Labor in Government
A calamity had taken place. A catastrophe. A car crash in slow motion.
It hadn’t started like this. Early in the night, the obvious states had come in. Alabama and New York had slotted into their obvious columns. The crowds at the George W. Bush Election Night Party inside the Reagan Building had watched as Republican and Democratic electoral votes grew higher and higher. They were there as the nation tiptoed to a precipice and then, at some point past 2:00 AM, flung itself off it. Though CNN, FOX, and MSNBC had refused to call it, the old fogeys at CBS had taken a bold step into the unknown—the election was tied 269-269. For the first time since 1800, the House of Representatives would pick the president.
The enormity of the event had not yet reached those gathered in the Reagan Building. Decked in their “W” hats and American flag-patterned outfits, they looked confused more than anything. George W. Bush could see them murmuring through a tiny monitor in his makeshift green room. They were growing anxious as word spread that his opponent was planning to address their own supporters within the next few minutes. His own silence was becoming noticeable, concerning, but he could not move himself to act. For the first time in a long time, he felt sapped of his certainty.
“Sir?”
George jumped at the sudden intrusion. He spun to see, not Rove, not his running mate, but Blake Gottesman—his bag man. The boy, gangly with spots of acne, shifted his weight from side to side like a child trying to hold in his bladder.
“Sorry for bothering, Mr. President, but um…” George became aware of a phone in the boy’s hand. His mind jumped between a dozen possibilities. “It’s your father. You told me to tell you if he called tonight?”
George blinked. Then, as if in a dream, he beckoned for the boy to approach and took the phone from him with a shaky hand. Blake took a step backward and then vanished from the green room as George took the call off hold.
“Hi Poppy,” said George. His voice seemed distant.
From thousands of miles away came the voice of George’s father, harsh and clipped. “I’ve been on the phone with Jeb. He’s been talking with his people and he thinks that ABC is right. This thing’s going for a tie or, at the very least, an extended recount.” There was a rumble that George recognized as a sigh. “This is worse than 2000. What a goddamn mess.”
“We don’t know that yet,” murmured George. His voice seemed strangely child-like, sullen. He had a brief flash of being back in elementary school, trying to explain his report card. “There’s still absentee ballots. There’s still military ballots, you know what I’m saying? There could be fraud. K-Karl says—.”
“Jesus Christ, listen to yourself. ‘Voter fraud.’” The voice was high-pitched, mocking. “Give me a break.”
“O-okay. Maybe there’s not fraud. Maybe… I mean, we don’t gotta resignate—. I mean, I we don’t have to resign ourselves to this. There’s gonna be a run-off. We could still win in the House. That’s what happens next, right? We can still come out on top.”
He was so desperate. If Poppy could just say one positive thing, if he could give him one reassurance, everything would be okay.
Instead, there was a long and deafening silence on the other end of the receiver. “No, George. The Democrats are probably going to win the House.” He let the sentence sit there, moldering. “They’ll get sworn in and then, on January 6th, they’ll vote down the line for the Democrat. You will lose. You will be evicted from the White House. There is no reprieve coming. Christ is not going to descend from the heavens to save you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He was quiet. He remembered how he’d come home to Poppy drunk one night when he was in his 30s. He remembered the disgusted look on his father’s face.
“Answer me when I talk to you. Do you understand?”
George swallowed. “Yeah… Poppy. I understand.”
“Good. Jeb and I will call you tomorrow about how we can play this, but what’s important right now is you get out there. You tell the people at the Reagan Center that these results are not what you wanted but you are following them closely and you will respect the will of the voters, whatever that may be. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, if you ever listened to me, you would have done this hours ago.” Poppy gave a huff. "Just get out there before things get any worse. Don’t forget, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
And then, without ceremony, Poppy hung up. Bush allowed himself to listen to the silence for several moments. Then, he reconstructed his smile. He pretended to be jovial as he walked through rows of sullen aides. He wrapped his arm around Laura and kissed her gently on the cheek, a gesture he’d seen his father do many times before. Then, he stepped out onto the stage before the crowd. He could hear their voices but, with the stage lights blaring, he could not see their faces.
No Greater Privilege
The excitement had been building for hours inside the Reagan Building in downtown DC. First, the noncompetitive states had come in—Alabama, South Carolina, Utah—inspiring mild cheers from their partisans. Then, there’d been a raft of Republican-leaning states. These had been no great surprises; there were no stunning upsets from what the forecasters had predicted. Still, their number had steadily grown—173 to 188 to 191. The crowds had watched the screens at his Election Night party, bouncing between despair and anticipation, until finally, after midnight, CNN called it. There were still votes to be counted, but according to their projections: George W. Bush had avoided defeat. A cheer went up through the building.
He could hear their shouts echoing through the building, but the sensation George felt in his makeshift green room was exhaustion. It had been a hard four years and an even harder campaign. His body felt ragged, overused. He imagined himself as a rag doll struggling itself stitched together after weeks of being jerked around.
George was aware of a shape standing in the door. He turned and saw his personal assistant, a beanpole of a man, holding a cell phone. He forced himself to smile. “Hey, Blake, is that there the rebels calling to offer their surrender?”
His wry tone flew over the boy’s head. “Uh, no. I, uh, was able to get through to President Bush like you—. I mean, I was able to get through to your father. I know you’d wanted to talk to him before…”
George offered some vague Texan platitude, took the phone, and ushered the boy away. Then, he took a breath and took the call off hold. “Heya, Poppy. Glad you stayed up.”
There was the sound of breathing on the other end. A hand setting a glass on a coaster. “Your mother went to bed, but I’ve been talking to Jeb.” A pause as the voice on the other end took another sip of his drink. “He’ll probably want to call you when things settle down.”
“Oh!” He dulled his intelligence, willed himself to be more dense. “Well, I’ll be looking forward to that. I really will.” He wandered around the green room, busying himself by adjusting make-up bottles and peering into the tiny monitor that displayed the happy crowds in the atrium. They were playing some country song now to fill the time, something by Toby Keith. “Pretty big night. Good for everyone.”
“I suppose you managed to clear the bar and win an election.”
“Yeah, yeah… It’s gonna be a real game change from here on out, Poppy. No more having to worry about legacy, you know what I mean?” He continued staring into the tiny monitor. He wished they would cheer louder, make themselves heard to Poppy over the phone. “Things are gonna be different these next few years.”
There was a long pause. George was sure their call had been disconnected. Then, in a voice that mixed with the static came a low rumble. “No, George. It’s not.”
In the background, Toby Keith’s preening about family and country values suddenly seemed hollow and sarcastic. George gripped the phone hard.
“You’ve made your choices. There are no ‘new beginnings.’ There are no ‘fresh starts.’ You made your choices. You set this country down a path. By winning, all you did was guarantee that you’ll be the one dealing with the consequences of your actions. Nothing else.”
“Okay.”
“No one’s going to bail you out of your messes for you, Junior. This isn’t Yale.”
George was quiet and stared at his feet. He swallowed to bury the heavy feeling in his throat. “Hey, Poppy, I, uh, I got to go. The crowd out here is getting pretty rowdy and they’re tellin’ me I should give my victory speech before things get out of hand. Let’s talk about this stuff later, okay?”
There was an exasperated sigh through the receiver followed by the sound of someone downing the remainder of his bourbon. “Alright. Well, I should get to bed anyway. Don’t forget that Jeb will call you. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Okay, love you Poppy,” said George, only to be interrupted by the sound of the call disconnecting. He let the drone of the silent telephone bore into him. He allowed himself a few brief moments of quiet before putting back on his mask of cowboy confidence and exiting his room. He forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Greater Privilege
The excitement had been building for hours inside the Reagan Building in downtown DC. First, the noncompetitive states had come in—Alabama, South Carolina, Utah—inspiring mild cheers from their partisans. Then, there’d been a raft of Republican-leaning states. These had been no great surprises; there were no stunning upsets from what the forecasters had predicted. Still, their number had steadily grown—173 to 188 to 191. The crowds had watched the screens at his Election Night party, bouncing between despair and anticipation, until finally, after midnight, CNN called it. There were still votes to be counted, but according to their projections: George W. Bush had avoided defeat. A cheer went up through the building.
He could hear their shouts echoing through the building, but the sensation George felt in his makeshift green room was exhaustion. It had been a hard four years and an even harder campaign. His body felt ragged, overused. He imagined himself as a rag doll struggling itself stitched together after weeks of being jerked around.
George was aware of a shape standing in the door. He turned and saw his personal assistant, a beanpole of a man, holding a cell phone. He forced himself to smile. “Hey, Blake, is that there the rebels calling to offer their surrender?”
His wry tone flew over the boy’s head. “Uh, no. I, uh, was able to get through to President Bush like you—. I mean, I was able to get through to your father. I know you’d wanted to talk to him before…”
George offered some vague Texan platitude, took the phone, and ushered the boy away. Then, he took a breath and took the call off hold. “Heya, Poppy. Glad you stayed up.”
There was the sound of breathing on the other end. A hand setting a glass on a coaster. “Your mother went to bed, but I’ve been talking to Jeb.” A pause as the voice on the other end took another sip of his drink. “He’ll probably want to call you when things settle down.”
“Oh!” He dulled his intelligence, willed himself to be more dense. “Well, I’ll be looking forward to that. I really will.” He wandered around the green room, busying himself by adjusting make-up bottles and peering into the tiny monitor that displayed the happy crowds in the atrium. They were playing some country song now to fill the time, something by Toby Keith. “Pretty big night. Good for everyone.”
“I suppose you managed to clear the bar and win an election.”
“Yeah, yeah… It’s gonna be a real game change from here on out, Poppy. No more having to worry about legacy, you know what I mean?” He continued staring into the tiny monitor. He wished they would cheer louder, make themselves heard to Poppy over the phone. “Things are gonna be different these next few years.”
There was a long pause. George was sure their call had been disconnected. Then, in a voice that mixed with the static came a low rumble. “No, George. It’s not.”
In the background, Toby Keith’s preening about family and country values suddenly seemed hollow and sarcastic. George gripped the phone hard.
“You’ve made your choices. There are no ‘new beginnings.’ There are no ‘fresh starts.’ You made your choices. You set this country down a path. By winning, all you did was guarantee that you’ll be the one dealing with the consequences of your actions. Nothing else.”
“Okay.”
“No one’s going to bail you out of your messes for you, Junior. This isn’t Yale.”
George was quiet and stared at his feet. He swallowed to bury the heavy feeling in his throat. “Hey, Poppy, I, uh, I got to go. The crowd out here is getting pretty rowdy and they’re tellin’ me I should give my victory speech before things get out of hand. Let’s talk about this stuff later, okay?”
There was an exasperated sigh through the receiver followed by the sound of someone downing the remainder of his bourbon. “Alright. Well, I should get to bed anyway. Don’t forget that Jeb will call you. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Okay, love you Poppy,” said George, only to be interrupted by the sound of the call disconnecting. He let the drone of the silent telephone bore into him. He allowed himself a few brief moments of quiet before putting back on his mask of cowboy confidence and exiting his room. He forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Greater Privilege
The excitement had been building for hours inside the Reagan Building in downtown DC. First, the noncompetitive states had come in—Alabama, South Carolina, Utah—inspiring mild cheers from their partisans. Then, there’d been a raft of Republican-leaning states. These had been no great surprises; there were no stunning upsets from what the forecasters had predicted. Still, their number had steadily grown—173 to 188 to 191. The crowds had watched the screens at his Election Night party, bouncing between despair and anticipation, until finally, after midnight, CNN called it. There were still votes to be counted, but according to their projections: George W. Bush had avoided defeat. A cheer went up through the building.
He could hear their shouts echoing through the building, but the sensation George felt in his makeshift green room was exhaustion. It had been a hard four years and an even harder campaign. His body felt ragged, overused. He imagined himself as a rag doll struggling itself stitched together after weeks of being jerked around.
George was aware of a shape standing in the door. He turned and saw his personal assistant, a beanpole of a man, holding a cell phone. He forced himself to smile. “Hey, Blake, is that there the rebels calling to offer their surrender?”
His wry tone flew over the boy’s head. “Uh, no. I, uh, was able to get through to President Bush like you—. I mean, I was able to get through to your father. I know you’d wanted to talk to him before…”
George offered some vague Texan platitude, took the phone, and ushered the boy away. Then, he took a breath and took the call off hold. “Heya, Poppy. Glad you stayed up.”
There was the sound of breathing on the other end. A hand setting a glass on a coaster. “Your mother went to bed, but I’ve been talking to Jeb.” A pause as the voice on the other end took another sip of his drink. “He’ll probably want to call you when things settle down.”
“Oh!” He dulled his intelligence, willed himself to be more dense. “Well, I’ll be looking forward to that. I really will.” He wandered around the green room, busying himself by adjusting make-up bottles and peering into the tiny monitor that displayed the happy crowds in the atrium. They were playing some country song now to fill the time, something by Toby Keith. “Pretty big night. Good for everyone.”
“I suppose you managed to clear the bar and win an election.”
“Yeah, yeah… It’s gonna be a real game change from here on out, Poppy. No more having to worry about legacy, you know what I mean?” He continued staring into the tiny monitor. He wished they would cheer louder, make themselves heard to Poppy over the phone. “Things are gonna be different these next few years.”
There was a long pause. George was sure their call had been disconnected. Then, in a voice that mixed with the static came a low rumble. “No, George. It’s not.”
In the background, Toby Keith’s preening about family and country values suddenly seemed hollow and sarcastic. George gripped the phone hard.
“You’ve made your choices. There are no ‘new beginnings.’ There are no ‘fresh starts.’ You made your choices. You set this country down a path. By winning, all you did was guarantee that you’ll be the one dealing with the consequences of your actions. Nothing else.”
“Okay.”
“No one’s going to bail you out of your messes for you, Junior. This isn’t Yale.”
George was quiet and stared at his feet. He swallowed to bury the heavy feeling in his throat. “Hey, Poppy, I, uh, I got to go. The crowd out here is getting pretty rowdy and they’re tellin’ me I should give my victory speech before things get out of hand. Let’s talk about this stuff later, okay?”
There was an exasperated sigh through the receiver followed by the sound of someone downing the remainder of his bourbon. “Alright. Well, I should get to bed anyway. Don’t forget that Jeb will call you. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Okay, love you Poppy,” said George, only to be interrupted by the sound of the call disconnecting. He let the drone of the silent telephone bore into him. He allowed himself a few brief moments of quiet before putting back on his mask of cowboy confidence and exiting his room. He forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Greater Privilege
The excitement had been building for hours inside the Reagan Building in downtown DC. First, the noncompetitive states had come in—Alabama, South Carolina, Utah—inspiring mild cheers from their partisans. Then, there’d been a raft of Republican-leaning states. These had been no great surprises; there were no stunning upsets from what the forecasters had predicted. Still, their number had steadily grown—173 to 188 to 191. The crowds had watched the screens at his Election Night party, bouncing between despair and anticipation, until finally, after midnight, CNN called it. There were still votes to be counted, but according to their projections: George W. Bush had avoided defeat. A cheer went up through the building.
He could hear their shouts echoing through the building, but the sensation George felt in his makeshift green room was exhaustion. It had been a hard four years and an even harder campaign. His body felt ragged, overused. He imagined himself as a rag doll struggling itself stitched together after weeks of being jerked around.
George was aware of a shape standing in the door. He turned and saw his personal assistant, a beanpole of a man, holding a cell phone. He forced himself to smile. “Hey, Blake, is that there the rebels calling to offer their surrender?”
His wry tone flew over the boy’s head. “Uh, no. I, uh, was able to get through to President Bush like you—. I mean, I was able to get through to your father. I know you’d wanted to talk to him before…”
George offered some vague Texan platitude, took the phone, and ushered the boy away. Then, he took a breath and took the call off hold. “Heya, Poppy. Glad you stayed up.”
There was the sound of breathing on the other end. A hand setting a glass on a coaster. “Your mother went to bed, but I’ve been talking to Jeb.” A pause as the voice on the other end took another sip of his drink. “He’ll probably want to call you when things settle down.”
“Oh!” He dulled his intelligence, willed himself to be more dense. “Well, I’ll be looking forward to that. I really will.” He wandered around the green room, busying himself by adjusting make-up bottles and peering into the tiny monitor that displayed the happy crowds in the atrium. They were playing some country song now to fill the time, something by Toby Keith. “Pretty big night. Good for everyone.”
“I suppose you managed to clear the bar and win an election.”
“Yeah, yeah… It’s gonna be a real game change from here on out, Poppy. No more having to worry about legacy, you know what I mean?” He continued staring into the tiny monitor. He wished they would cheer louder, make themselves heard to Poppy over the phone. “Things are gonna be different these next few years.”
There was a long pause. George was sure their call had been disconnected. Then, in a voice that mixed with the static came a low rumble. “No, George. It’s not.”
In the background, Toby Keith’s preening about family and country values suddenly seemed hollow and sarcastic. George gripped the phone hard.
“You’ve made your choices. There are no ‘new beginnings.’ There are no ‘fresh starts.’ You made your choices. You set this country down a path. By winning, all you did was guarantee that you’ll be the one dealing with the consequences of your actions. Nothing else.”
“Okay.”
“No one’s going to bail you out of your messes for you, Junior. This isn’t Yale.”
George was quiet and stared at his feet. He swallowed to bury the heavy feeling in his throat. “Hey, Poppy, I, uh, I got to go. The crowd out here is getting pretty rowdy and they’re tellin’ me I should give my victory speech before things get out of hand. Let’s talk about this stuff later, okay?”
There was an exasperated sigh through the receiver followed by the sound of someone downing the remainder of his bourbon. “Alright. Well, I should get to bed anyway. Don’t forget that Jeb will call you. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Okay, love you Poppy,” said George, only to be interrupted by the sound of the call disconnecting. He let the drone of the silent telephone bore into him. He allowed himself a few brief moments of quiet before putting back on his mask of cowboy confidence and exiting his room. He forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Greater Privilege
The excitement had been building for hours inside the Reagan Building in downtown DC. First, the noncompetitive states had come in—Alabama, South Carolina, Utah—inspiring mild cheers from their partisans. Then, there’d been a raft of Republican-leaning states. These had been no great surprises; there were no stunning upsets from what the forecasters had predicted. Still, their number had steadily grown—173 to 188 to 191. The crowds had watched the screens at his Election Night party, bouncing between despair and anticipation, until finally, after midnight, CNN called it. There were still votes to be counted, but according to their projections: George W. Bush had avoided defeat. A cheer went up through the building.
He could hear their shouts echoing through the building, but the sensation George felt in his makeshift green room was exhaustion. It had been a hard four years and an even harder campaign. His body felt ragged, overused. He imagined himself as a rag doll struggling itself stitched together after weeks of being jerked around.
George was aware of a shape standing in the door. He turned and saw his personal assistant, a beanpole of a man, holding a cell phone. He forced himself to smile. “Hey, Blake, is that there the rebels calling to offer their surrender?”
His wry tone flew over the boy’s head. “Uh, no. I, uh, was able to get through to President Bush like you—. I mean, I was able to get through to your father. I know you’d wanted to talk to him before…”
George offered some vague Texan platitude, took the phone, and ushered the boy away. Then, he took a breath and took the call off hold. “Heya, Poppy. Glad you stayed up.”
There was the sound of breathing on the other end. A hand setting a glass on a coaster. “Your mother went to bed, but I’ve been talking to Jeb.” A pause as the voice on the other end took another sip of his drink. “He’ll probably want to call you when things settle down.”
“Oh!” He dulled his intelligence, willed himself to be more dense. “Well, I’ll be looking forward to that. I really will.” He wandered around the green room, busying himself by adjusting make-up bottles and peering into the tiny monitor that displayed the happy crowds in the atrium. They were playing some country song now to fill the time, something by Toby Keith. “Pretty big night. Good for everyone.”
“I suppose you managed to clear the bar and win an election.”
“Yeah, yeah… It’s gonna be a real game change from here on out, Poppy. No more having to worry about legacy, you know what I mean?” He continued staring into the tiny monitor. He wished they would cheer louder, make themselves heard to Poppy over the phone. “Things are gonna be different these next few years.”
There was a long pause. George was sure their call had been disconnected. Then, in a voice that mixed with the static came a low rumble. “No, George. It’s not.”
In the background, Toby Keith’s preening about family and country values suddenly seemed hollow and sarcastic. George gripped the phone hard.
“You’ve made your choices. There are no ‘new beginnings.’ There are no ‘fresh starts.’ You made your choices. You set this country down a path. By winning, all you did was guarantee that you’ll be the one dealing with the consequences of your actions. Nothing else.”
“Okay.”
“No one’s going to bail you out of your messes for you, Junior. This isn’t Yale.”
George was quiet and stared at his feet. He swallowed to bury the heavy feeling in his throat. “Hey, Poppy, I, uh, I got to go. The crowd out here is getting pretty rowdy and they’re tellin’ me I should give my victory speech before things get out of hand. Let’s talk about this stuff later, okay?”
There was an exasperated sigh through the receiver followed by the sound of someone downing the remainder of his bourbon. “Alright. Well, I should get to bed anyway. Don’t forget that Jeb will call you. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Okay, love you Poppy,” said George, only to be interrupted by the sound of the call disconnecting. He let the drone of the silent telephone bore into him. He allowed himself a few brief moments of quiet before putting back on his mask of cowboy confidence and exiting his room. He forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Greater Privilege
The excitement had been building for hours inside the Reagan Building in downtown DC. First, the noncompetitive states had come in—Alabama, South Carolina, Utah—inspiring mild cheers from their partisans. Then, there’d been a raft of Republican-leaning states. These had been no great surprises; there were no stunning upsets from what the forecasters had predicted. Still, their number had steadily grown—173 to 188 to 191. The crowds had watched the screens at his Election Night party, bouncing between despair and anticipation, until finally, after midnight, CNN called it. There were still votes to be counted, but according to their projections: George W. Bush had avoided defeat. A cheer went up through the building.
He could hear their shouts echoing through the building, but the sensation George felt in his makeshift green room was exhaustion. It had been a hard four years and an even harder campaign. His body felt ragged, overused. He imagined himself as a rag doll struggling itself stitched together after weeks of being jerked around.
George was aware of a shape standing in the door. He turned and saw his personal assistant, a beanpole of a man, holding a cell phone. He forced himself to smile. “Hey, Blake, is that there the rebels calling to offer their surrender?”
His wry tone flew over the boy’s head. “Uh, no. I, uh, was able to get through to President Bush like you—. I mean, I was able to get through to your father. I know you’d wanted to talk to him before…”
George offered some vague Texan platitude, took the phone, and ushered the boy away. Then, he took a breath and took the call off hold. “Heya, Poppy. Glad you stayed up.”
There was the sound of breathing on the other end. A hand setting a glass on a coaster. “Your mother went to bed, but I’ve been talking to Jeb.” A pause as the voice on the other end took another sip of his drink. “He’ll probably want to call you when things settle down.”
“Oh!” He dulled his intelligence, willed himself to be more dense. “Well, I’ll be looking forward to that. I really will.” He wandered around the green room, busying himself by adjusting make-up bottles and peering into the tiny monitor that displayed the happy crowds in the atrium. They were playing some country song now to fill the time, something by Toby Keith. “Pretty big night. Good for everyone.”
“I suppose you managed to clear the bar and win an election.”
“Yeah, yeah… It’s gonna be a real game change from here on out, Poppy. No more having to worry about legacy, you know what I mean?” He continued staring into the tiny monitor. He wished they would cheer louder, make themselves heard to Poppy over the phone. “Things are gonna be different these next few years.”
There was a long pause. George was sure their call had been disconnected. Then, in a voice that mixed with the static came a low rumble. “No, George. It’s not.”
In the background, Toby Keith’s preening about family and country values suddenly seemed hollow and sarcastic. George gripped the phone hard.
“You’ve made your choices. There are no ‘new beginnings.’ There are no ‘fresh starts.’ You made your choices. You set this country down a path. By winning, all you did was guarantee that you’ll be the one dealing with the consequences of your actions. Nothing else.”
“Okay.”
“No one’s going to bail you out of your messes for you, Junior. This isn’t Yale.”
George was quiet and stared at his feet. He swallowed to bury the heavy feeling in his throat. “Hey, Poppy, I, uh, I got to go. The crowd out here is getting pretty rowdy and they’re tellin’ me I should give my victory speech before things get out of hand. Let’s talk about this stuff later, okay?”
There was an exasperated sigh through the receiver followed by the sound of someone downing the remainder of his bourbon. “Alright. Well, I should get to bed anyway. Don’t forget that Jeb will call you. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Okay, love you Poppy,” said George, only to be interrupted by the sound of the call disconnecting. He let the drone of the silent telephone bore into him. He allowed himself a few brief moments of quiet before putting back on his mask of cowboy confidence and exiting his room. He forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Greater Privilege
The excitement had been building for hours inside the Reagan Building in downtown DC. First, the noncompetitive states had come in—Alabama, South Carolina, Utah—inspiring mild cheers from their partisans. Then, there’d been a raft of Republican-leaning states. These had been no great surprises; there were no stunning upsets from what the forecasters had predicted. Still, their number had steadily grown—173 to 188 to 191. The crowds had watched the screens at his Election Night party, bouncing between despair and anticipation, until finally, after midnight, CNN called it. There were still votes to be counted, but according to their projections: George W. Bush had avoided defeat. A cheer went up through the building.
He could hear their shouts echoing through the building, but the sensation George felt in his makeshift green room was exhaustion. It had been a hard four years and an even harder campaign. His body felt ragged, overused. He imagined himself as a rag doll struggling itself stitched together after weeks of being jerked around.
George was aware of a shape standing in the door. He turned and saw his personal assistant, a beanpole of a man, holding a cell phone. He forced himself to smile. “Hey, Blake, is that there the rebels calling to offer their surrender?”
His wry tone flew over the boy’s head. “Uh, no. I, uh, was able to get through to President Bush like you—. I mean, I was able to get through to your father. I know you’d wanted to talk to him before…”
George offered some vague Texan platitude, took the phone, and ushered the boy away. Then, he took a breath and took the call off hold. “Heya, Poppy. Glad you stayed up.”
There was the sound of breathing on the other end. A hand setting a glass on a coaster. “Your mother went to bed, but I’ve been talking to Jeb.” A pause as the voice on the other end took another sip of his drink. “He’ll probably want to call you when things settle down.”
“Oh!” He dulled his intelligence, willed himself to be more dense. “Well, I’ll be looking forward to that. I really will.” He wandered around the green room, busying himself by adjusting make-up bottles and peering into the tiny monitor that displayed the happy crowds in the atrium. They were playing some country song now to fill the time, something by Toby Keith. “Pretty big night. Good for everyone.”
“I suppose you managed to clear the bar and win an election.”
“Yeah, yeah… It’s gonna be a real game change from here on out, Poppy. No more having to worry about legacy, you know what I mean?” He continued staring into the tiny monitor. He wished they would cheer louder, make themselves heard to Poppy over the phone. “Things are gonna be different these next few years.”
There was a long pause. George was sure their call had been disconnected. Then, in a voice that mixed with the static came a low rumble. “No, George. It’s not.”
In the background, Toby Keith’s preening about family and country values suddenly seemed hollow and sarcastic. George gripped the phone hard.
“You’ve made your choices. There are no ‘new beginnings.’ There are no ‘fresh starts.’ You made your choices. You set this country down a path. By winning, all you did was guarantee that you’ll be the one dealing with the consequences of your actions. Nothing else.”
“Okay.”
“No one’s going to bail you out of your messes for you, Junior. This isn’t Yale.”
George was quiet and stared at his feet. He swallowed to bury the heavy feeling in his throat. “Hey, Poppy, I, uh, I got to go. The crowd out here is getting pretty rowdy and they’re tellin’ me I should give my victory speech before things get out of hand. Let’s talk about this stuff later, okay?”
There was an exasperated sigh through the receiver followed by the sound of someone downing the remainder of his bourbon. “Alright. Well, I should get to bed anyway. Don’t forget that Jeb will call you. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Okay, love you Poppy,” said George, only to be interrupted by the sound of the call disconnecting. He let the drone of the silent telephone bore into him. He allowed himself a few brief moments of quiet before putting back on his mask of cowboy confidence and exiting his room. He forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Higher Honor
He could hear them chanting inside the Reagan Building’s atrium. He could feel the vibrations from their shouts and stomping as state after state turned a crimson red. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!” Fox had called the race an hour ago, followed quickly by CNN. The haters at MSNBC still held out, sustained by half-memories of 2000 and delirious hopes regarding absentee ballots, but it wouldn’t be long until they too surrendered. He was certain of it. He took a swig of his non-alcoholic beer as the voices surged again. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!”
He was aware of a hesitant knock on the door of his makeshift green room, but he did not turn. He was too busy luxuriating in the love of the crowd. He closed his eyes and imagined the liberals in Washington weeping and tearing out their hair. He imagined them throwing themselves off buildings.
“Sir?”
George stifled a frown and turned. Silhouetted against the doorway stood his bag man. His lips were tight and arms crossed. In one hand was a cell phone. At once, the energy of the moment coursed back into him.
“Is it…?”
The boy nodded. “President Bush, I mean, your father called back to…”
He scrambled across the room and jerked the phone out of the boy’s hands before ushering him to leave. With excitement, he took the call off hold. “Hiya, Poppy!” His voice was shrill and schoolboyish. “Did ya see the results?”
“I flicked through the channels.” There was a long silence. “Almost as impressive as what I did in ‘88.”
The words felt like a knife through his skull. George forced himself to smile. “Yeah, exactly, Poppy…” He walked around the room. In a small monitor, he could see the atrium. He could see the people shouting his name. “I worked real hard for this and not just for me, for Jeb, for the party, for you…”
Static came through the receiver. “What do you want me to say, George? ‘Good job?’”
He stared intensely at the monitor, at the individual pixels. The scene lost coherence. A mass of red and blues. “Yeah, I, I…”
“Well, Christ. ‘Good job.’” The voice was dull, monotonous. George let it bore into him. “Truly, this is a great victory for the family and the party. This will transform Washington and put your name in the history books. Your mother and I are so proud of what you’ve accomplished.” George gripped the receiver hard and listened to his father’s breathing. “Is there anything else you wanted from me? Advice? Finally going to ask me for suggestions on how to handle the next four years?”
George felt himself shaking his head. “N-no, Poppy. Maybe later. Just… um… are you gonna watch my speech?”
There was a long sigh. Suppressed agitation. “It’s late, George. We’ll catch the replay tomorrow. If there’s nothing else, Barbara and I should get to bed. Good night.”
The line went dead. George allowed himself to stand in silence for a few moments in the green room before recomposing his smile. With a cowboy’s confidence, he forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Higher Honor
He could hear them chanting inside the Reagan Building’s atrium. He could feel the vibrations from their shouts and stomping as state after state turned a navy blue. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!” Fox had called the race an hour ago, followed quickly by CNN. The haters at MSNBC still held out, sustained by half-memories of 2000 and delirious hopes regarding absentee ballots, but it wouldn’t be long until they too surrendered. He was certain of it. He took a swig of his non-alcoholic beer as the voices surged again. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!”
He was aware of a hesitant knock on the door of his makeshift green room, but he did not turn. He was too busy luxuriating in the love of the crowd. He closed his eyes and imagined the liberals in Washington weeping and tearing out their hair. He imagined them throwing themselves off buildings.
“Sir?”
George stifled a frown and turned. Silhouetted against the doorway stood his bag man. His lips were tight and arms crossed. In one hand was a cell phone. At once, the energy of the moment coursed back into him.
“Is it…?”
The boy nodded. “President Bush, I mean, your father called back to…”
He scrambled across the room and jerked the phone out of the boy’s hands before ushering him to leave. With excitement, he took the call off hold. “Hiya, Poppy!” His voice was shrill and schoolboyish. “Did ya see the results?”
“I flicked through the channels.” There was a long silence. “Almost as impressive as what I did in ‘88.”
The words felt like a knife through his skull. George forced himself to smile. “Yeah, exactly, Poppy…” He walked around the room. In a small monitor, he could see the atrium. He could see the people shouting his name. “I worked real hard for this and not just for me, for Jeb, for the party, for you…”
Static came through the receiver. “What do you want me to say, George? ‘Good job?’”
He stared intensely at the monitor, at the individual pixels. The scene lost coherence. A mass of red and blues. “Yeah, I, I…”
“Well, Christ. ‘Good job.’” The voice was dull, monotonous. George let it bore into him. “Truly, this is a great victory for the family and the party. This will transform Washington and put your name in the history books. Your mother and I are so proud of what you’ve accomplished.” George gripped the receiver hard and listened to his father’s breathing. “Is there anything else you wanted from me? Advice? Finally going to ask me for suggestions on how to handle the next four years?”
George felt himself shaking his head. “N-no, Poppy. Maybe later. Just… um… are you gonna watch my speech?”
There was a long sigh. Suppressed agitation. “It’s late, George. We’ll catch the replay tomorrow. If there’s nothing else, Barbara and I should get to bed. Good night.”
The line went dead. George allowed himself to stand in silence for a few moments in the green room before recomposing his smile. With a cowboy’s confidence, he forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Higher Honor
He could hear them chanting inside the Reagan Building’s atrium. He could feel the vibrations from their shouts and stomping as state after state turned a crimson red. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!” Fox had called the race an hour ago, followed quickly by CNN. The haters at MSNBC still held out, sustained by half-memories of 2000 and delirious hopes regarding absentee ballots, but it wouldn’t be long until they too surrendered. He was certain of it. He took a swig of his non-alcoholic beer as the voices surged again. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!”
He was aware of a hesitant knock on the door of his makeshift green room, but he did not turn. He was too busy luxuriating in the love of the crowd. He closed his eyes and imagined the liberals in Washington weeping and tearing out their hair. He imagined them throwing themselves off buildings.
“Sir?”
George stifled a frown and turned. Silhouetted against the doorway stood his bag man. His lips were tight and arms crossed. In one hand was a cell phone. At once, the energy of the moment coursed back into him.
“Is it…?”
The boy nodded. “President Bush, I mean, your father called back to…”
He scrambled across the room and jerked the phone out of the boy’s hands before ushering him to leave. With excitement, he took the call off hold. “Hiya, Poppy!” His voice was shrill and schoolboyish. “Did ya see the results?”
“I flicked through the channels.” There was a long silence. “Almost as impressive as what I did in ‘88.”
The words felt like a knife through his skull. George forced himself to smile. “Yeah, exactly, Poppy…” He walked around the room. In a small monitor, he could see the atrium. He could see the people shouting his name. “I worked real hard for this and not just for me, for Jeb, for the party, for you…”
Static came through the receiver. “What do you want me to say, George? ‘Good job?’”
He stared intensely at the monitor, at the individual pixels. The scene lost coherence. A mass of red and blues. “Yeah, I, I…”
“Well, Christ. ‘Good job.’” The voice was dull, monotonous. George let it bore into him. “Truly, this is a great victory for the family and the party. This will transform Washington and put your name in the history books. Your mother and I are so proud of what you’ve accomplished.” George gripped the receiver hard and listened to his father’s breathing. “Is there anything else you wanted from me? Advice? Finally going to ask me for suggestions on how to handle the next four years?”
George felt himself shaking his head. “N-no, Poppy. Maybe later. Just… um… are you gonna watch my speech?”
There was a long sigh. Suppressed agitation. “It’s late, George. We’ll catch the replay tomorrow. If there’s nothing else, Barbara and I should get to bed. Good night.”
The line went dead. George allowed himself to stand in silence for a few moments in the green room before recomposing his smile. With a cowboy’s confidence, he forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Higher Honor
He could hear them chanting inside the Reagan Building’s atrium. He could feel the vibrations from their shouts and stomping as state after state turned a crimson red. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!” Fox had called the race an hour ago, followed quickly by CNN. The haters at MSNBC still held out, sustained by half-memories of 2000 and delirious hopes regarding absentee ballots, but it wouldn’t be long until they too surrendered. He was certain of it. He took a swig of his non-alcoholic beer as the voices surged again. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!”
He was aware of a hesitant knock on the door of his makeshift green room, but he did not turn. He was too busy luxuriating in the love of the crowd. He closed his eyes and imagined the liberals in Washington weeping and tearing out their hair. He imagined them throwing themselves off buildings.
“Sir?”
George stifled a frown and turned. Silhouetted against the doorway stood his bag man. His lips were tight and arms crossed. In one hand was a cell phone. At once, the energy of the moment coursed back into him.
“Is it…?”
The boy nodded. “President Bush, I mean, your father called back to…”
He scrambled across the room and jerked the phone out of the boy’s hands before ushering him to leave. With excitement, he took the call off hold. “Hiya, Poppy!” His voice was shrill and schoolboyish. “Did ya see the results?”
“I flicked through the channels.” There was a long silence. “Almost as impressive as what I did in ‘88.”
The words felt like a knife through his skull. George forced himself to smile. “Yeah, exactly, Poppy…” He walked around the room. In a small monitor, he could see the atrium. He could see the people shouting his name. “I worked real hard for this and not just for me, for Jeb, for the party, for you…”
Static came through the receiver. “What do you want me to say, George? ‘Good job?’”
He stared intensely at the monitor, at the individual pixels. The scene lost coherence. A mass of red and blues. “Yeah, I, I…”
“Well, Christ. ‘Good job.’” The voice was dull, monotonous. George let it bore into him. “Truly, this is a great victory for the family and the party. This will transform Washington and put your name in the history books. Your mother and I are so proud of what you’ve accomplished.” George gripped the receiver hard and listened to his father’s breathing. “Is there anything else you wanted from me? Advice? Finally going to ask me for suggestions on how to handle the next four years?”
George felt himself shaking his head. “N-no, Poppy. Maybe later. Just… um… are you gonna watch my speech?”
There was a long sigh. Suppressed agitation. “It’s late, George. We’ll catch the replay tomorrow. If there’s nothing else, Barbara and I should get to bed. Good night.”
The line went dead. George allowed himself to stand in silence for a few moments in the green room before recomposing his smile. With a cowboy’s confidence, he forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Higher Honor
He could hear them chanting inside the Reagan Building’s atrium. He could feel the vibrations from their shouts and stomping as state after state turned a crimson red. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!” Fox had called the race an hour ago, followed quickly by CNN. The haters at MSNBC still held out, sustained by half-memories of 2000 and delirious hopes regarding absentee ballots, but it wouldn’t be long until they too surrendered. He was certain of it. He took a swig of his non-alcoholic beer as the voices surged again. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!”
He was aware of a hesitant knock on the door of his makeshift green room, but he did not turn. He was too busy luxuriating in the love of the crowd. He closed his eyes and imagined the liberals in Washington weeping and tearing out their hair. He imagined them throwing themselves off buildings.
“Sir?”
George stifled a frown and turned. Silhouetted against the doorway stood his bag man. His lips were tight and arms crossed. In one hand was a cell phone. At once, the energy of the moment coursed back into him.
“Is it…?”
The boy nodded. “President Bush, I mean, your father called back to…”
He scrambled across the room and jerked the phone out of the boy’s hands before ushering him to leave. With excitement, he took the call off hold. “Hiya, Poppy!” His voice was shrill and schoolboyish. “Did ya see the results?”
“I flicked through the channels.” There was a long silence. “Almost as impressive as what I did in ‘88.”
The words felt like a knife through his skull. George forced himself to smile. “Yeah, exactly, Poppy…” He walked around the room. In a small monitor, he could see the atrium. He could see the people shouting his name. “I worked real hard for this and not just for me, for Jeb, for the party, for you…”
Static came through the receiver. “What do you want me to say, George? ‘Good job?’”
He stared intensely at the monitor, at the individual pixels. The scene lost coherence. A mass of red and blues. “Yeah, I, I…”
“Well, Christ. ‘Good job.’” The voice was dull, monotonous. George let it bore into him. “Truly, this is a great victory for the family and the party. This will transform Washington and put your name in the history books. Your mother and I are so proud of what you’ve accomplished.” George gripped the receiver hard and listened to his father’s breathing. “Is there anything else you wanted from me? Advice? Finally going to ask me for suggestions on how to handle the next four years?”
George felt himself shaking his head. “N-no, Poppy. Maybe later. Just… um… are you gonna watch my speech?”
There was a long sigh. Suppressed agitation. “It’s late, George. We’ll catch the replay tomorrow. If there’s nothing else, Barbara and I should get to bed. Good night.”
The line went dead. George allowed himself to stand in silence for a few moments in the green room before recomposing his smile. With a cowboy’s confidence, he forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Higher Honor
He could hear them chanting inside the Reagan Building’s atrium. He could feel the vibrations from their shouts and stomping as state after state turned a crimson red. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!” Fox had called the race an hour ago, followed quickly by CNN. The haters at MSNBC still held out, sustained by half-memories of 2000 and delirious hopes regarding absentee ballots, but it wouldn’t be long until they too surrendered. He was certain of it. He took a swig of his non-alcoholic beer as the voices surged again. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!”
He was aware of a hesitant knock on the door of his makeshift green room, but he did not turn. He was too busy luxuriating in the love of the crowd. He closed his eyes and imagined the liberals in Washington weeping and tearing out their hair. He imagined them throwing themselves off buildings.
“Sir?”
George stifled a frown and turned. Silhouetted against the doorway stood his bag man. His lips were tight and arms crossed. In one hand was a cell phone. At once, the energy of the moment coursed back into him.
“Is it…?”
The boy nodded. “President Bush, I mean, your father called back to…”
He scrambled across the room and jerked the phone out of the boy’s hands before ushering him to leave. With excitement, he took the call off hold. “Hiya, Poppy!” His voice was shrill and schoolboyish. “Did ya see the results?”
“I flicked through the channels.” There was a long silence. “Almost as impressive as what I did in ‘88.”
The words felt like a knife through his skull. George forced himself to smile. “Yeah, exactly, Poppy…” He walked around the room. In a small monitor, he could see the atrium. He could see the people shouting his name. “I worked real hard for this and not just for me, for Jeb, for the party, for you…”
Static came through the receiver. “What do you want me to say, George? ‘Good job?’”
He stared intensely at the monitor, at the individual pixels. The scene lost coherence. A mass of red and blues. “Yeah, I, I…”
“Well, Christ. ‘Good job.’” The voice was dull, monotonous. George let it bore into him. “Truly, this is a great victory for the family and the party. This will transform Washington and put your name in the history books. Your mother and I are so proud of what you’ve accomplished.” George gripped the receiver hard and listened to his father’s breathing. “Is there anything else you wanted from me? Advice? Finally going to ask me for suggestions on how to handle the next four years?”
George felt himself shaking his head. “N-no, Poppy. Maybe later. Just… um… are you gonna watch my speech?”
There was a long sigh. Suppressed agitation. “It’s late, George. We’ll catch the replay tomorrow. If there’s nothing else, Barbara and I should get to bed. Good night.”
The line went dead. George allowed himself to stand in silence for a few moments in the green room before recomposing his smile. With a cowboy’s confidence, he forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
No Higher Honor
He could hear them chanting inside the Reagan Building’s atrium. He could feel the vibrations from their shouts and stomping as state after state turned a crimson red. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!” Fox had called the race an hour ago, followed quickly by CNN. The haters at MSNBC still held out, sustained by half-memories of 2000 and delirious hopes regarding absentee ballots, but it wouldn’t be long until they too surrendered. He was certain of it. He took a swig of his non-alcoholic beer as the voices surged again. “FOUR MORE YEARS! FOUR MORE YEARS!”
He was aware of a hesitant knock on the door of his makeshift green room, but he did not turn. He was too busy luxuriating in the love of the crowd. He closed his eyes and imagined the liberals in Washington weeping and tearing out their hair. He imagined them throwing themselves off buildings.
“Sir?”
George stifled a frown and turned. Silhouetted against the doorway stood his bag man. His lips were tight and arms crossed. In one hand was a cell phone. At once, the energy of the moment coursed back into him.
“Is it…?”
The boy nodded. “President Bush, I mean, your father called back to…”
He scrambled across the room and jerked the phone out of the boy’s hands before ushering him to leave. With excitement, he took the call off hold. “Hiya, Poppy!” His voice was shrill and schoolboyish. “Did ya see the results?”
“I flicked through the channels.” There was a long silence. “Almost as impressive as what I did in ‘88.”
The words felt like a knife through his skull. George forced himself to smile. “Yeah, exactly, Poppy…” He walked around the room. In a small monitor, he could see the atrium. He could see the people shouting his name. “I worked real hard for this and not just for me, for Jeb, for the party, for you…”
Static came through the receiver. “What do you want me to say, George? ‘Good job?’”
He stared intensely at the monitor, at the individual pixels. The scene lost coherence. A mass of red and blues. “Yeah, I, I…”
“Well, Christ. ‘Good job.’” The voice was dull, monotonous. George let it bore into him. “Truly, this is a great victory for the family and the party. This will transform Washington and put your name in the history books. Your mother and I are so proud of what you’ve accomplished.” George gripped the receiver hard and listened to his father’s breathing. “Is there anything else you wanted from me? Advice? Finally going to ask me for suggestions on how to handle the next four years?”
George felt himself shaking his head. “N-no, Poppy. Maybe later. Just… um… are you gonna watch my speech?”
There was a long sigh. Suppressed agitation. “It’s late, George. We’ll catch the replay tomorrow. If there’s nothing else, Barbara and I should get to bed. Good night.”
The line went dead. George allowed himself to stand in silence for a few moments in the green room before recomposing his smile. With a cowboy’s confidence, he forced himself to emerge and greet his many smiling aides, slapping them hard on the back or shaking their hands. Then, with Laura at his side, he stepped out onto the stage before blinding stage lights. He could not see the crowd in front of him but he could hear their voices.
Washington, D.C., April 28, 2008
The mood was sour as so-called “President” Bush paced outside the Oval Office. While Cheney had never really cared about what Bush did or how he felt, things had become downright flagrant as his “presidency” came to a close. Before, Cheney had at least put in the effort to distract Bush while he ran the country from behind the scenes. Now, he just didn’t care. As he waited to sit behind his favorite desk, all Bush had to focus his small brain on was the voice of Rush from a staffers office.
“You know, Snerdly, we ask a lot on this show what the difference between what this Bush and his pappy is supposed to be. I think the answer’s been staring us in the face the whole time. It’s in the name! The dad was H.W., this one is W. Bush. And you know what that missing H stands for? It’s history! This President will not be remembered by history at all, except as the least consequential ‘leader’ this nation has ever seen. Back then, I marveled at how the media covered Bush 41 as this wimp, no matter how much he gave to them, because he was actually quite strong. He went after Saddam. They said “No war for oil!” and he didn’t blink. But his son wanted those dittoheads to love him, so he did nothing. And they still hate him anyway! It should teach us conservatives a lesson that Ford is learning the hard way: you can’t get very far with a worse version of an old model…”
Just as Bush couldn’t take it anymore, Cheney walked through the door. Swiftly stepping out of the way, Bush spoke, staring at the floor.
“So, heh, hey, Dick. How are things going?”
Cheney turned, looking at him with a scowl. “That’s none of your business.”
Bush chucked like a moron as he lifted his gaze from the ground. “You know, Dick, I was gonna say. Technically, I mean, now that Frist is here, you haven’t been Veep for a few years. So I was thinking that, considering that, that, maybe, heh, you could give me some more time in the Office? At least while I’m on the way out?”
Cheney scowled even harder. “Shut the fuck up.” He spat on him and walked away.
Having braved through the least humiliating thing to happen to him that day, Bush moved towards the Resolute Desk to pretend that he was an actual President. Sitting in his chair, he looked down and saw what Cheney had been working on all day. It was the first draft of his memoirs, titled Monkey See, Monkey Do. Flipping through them at random, he settled on a paragraph in the book’s second chapter.
“—and that was how I got his dumbass bill through Congress. Honestly, I didn’t think it was even a good idea, but I thought, hey, if this moron can’t get anything through, it might start reflecting badly on me, you know? And with a normal president, there’s usually a tit-for-tat here: I help him out, he helps me out. But then when it comes to doing the most basic shit to trade blood for oil [EDITOR’S NOTE: make sure to lie here], he was too much of a coward to do it! God, he’s such a dipshit. Anyways—”
Bush couldn’t bear to read any further. He was devastated. Feeling completely helpless, he prayed to the Lord.
“Oh, God, tell me, why must I suffer so? I have been defiled as Huckabee has rebuked all of my efforts. Condemned by Dick as he has taken credit for my works. Played the fool by Rush as he has condemned me as a footnote. Are the peacemakers not your children? Somebody tag in God. God, if you can hear me, God, please save me. Please save me, God, please. I’m asking you.”
Suddenly, he felt a presence and heard a voice from the Heavens. “Do not be afraid, my child. I have been watching. Know that all that has happened over these eight years was by my design. You should fear not, as all that has occurred is exactly what you wanted.”
Shrieking, Bush jumped and hid behind “his” desk. Trembling, he asked, “Oh, Lord, how can this be? How can this be what I wanted? In spite of my trials, I have nothing.”
For a moment, God was silent. Then, he spoke. “Oops. Wrong George Bush. Uhhh. Darn. My bad.” The presence left as quickly as it came.
Still trembling, Bush slowly stood up, looking outside the window of the Oval Office. It was snowing that April. The lawn was immaculately trimmed, the hard work of people who had actually held a real job once in their lives. Staring at the falling snow much as an infant would at a set of jangling keys, he moved his gaze towards the hedges just outside the window. Hidden beneath the white blankets of snow, the White House greenery appeared smaller than usual. What once looked like a mighty bush now seemed to be nothing more than a lowly shrub.
The plant looked back at the “President.” It had no eyes, but it saw itself.
NYET MEANS NYET: RUSSIA'S NATO REDLINES IN AFGHANISTAN
wikileaks.org
Public Library of US Diplomacy
Date:2008 February 1, 14:25 (Friday)
B. MOSCOW 182
Classified By: [REDACTED]. Reasons 1.4 (b) and (d).
1. (C) Summary. Following an tepid first reaction to Afghanistan’s intent to seek a NATO Membership Action Plan (MAP) at the Bucharest summit (ref A), Foreign Minister Lavrov and other senior officials have sought clarification on whether the Afghan government’s proposal was made in jest. After being assured that both President Karzai and President Bush were fully serious about Afghanistan joining NATO, Russian officials pushed back strongly. Memories of the Afghan war remain "a raw and open wound" for Russia. End summary.
2. (U) NATO membership for Afghanistan is judged as the first step in a “New Cold War” by Russian officials. During his annual review of Russia's foreign policy January 22-23 (ref B), Foreign Minister Lavrov issued restrained praise of recent U.S. actions towards Russia, claiming that President Bush has been “a friend” to Russian President Vladimir Putin. Now, citing recent issues such as the withdrawal from the ABM Treaty (ref C), statements from senior cabinet officials, and tensions over the Afghan government, Foreign Minister Lavrov claimed that NATO membership would be laying the groundwork for a “New Cold War” between the West and Russia.
3. (U) Russian state media has echoed these claims, while focusing on domestic issues in American politics, and claiming that President Bush is looking for a “quick withdrawal” in the Afghan War. President Karzai publicly denies that NATO membership is being made in exchange for a major reduction in U.S. military forces in Afghanistan, but senior American and Afghan officials both concede this plan is already in motion.
4. (U) Irrespective of any domestic concerns, the Russian military has bolstered their presence in Central Asia in recent weeks, and President Putin is planning a visit to Afghanistan before the Bucharest Summit. Afghanistan is not a strategic priority for Russia, but remains a highly sensitive issue, and fears of a permanent U.S. military occupation of the country are widespread among top officials.
5. (C) Domestic political considerations in Russia are paramount regarding the Afghan issue. President Putin is looking to build a lasting legacy before leaving office in 2012, and was hoping early in his term that improved relations with the West would be his defining achievement. As those plans have fallen apart, he has increasingly turned to projecting state power across the Caucasus, Eastern Europe, and Central Asia. With Russian state enterprises dramatically weakened after 1991, and the fluctuating oil market providing a lack of steady income for Russia’s major export, military force is increasingly the most robust way for Russian leaders to project their power.
6. (C) President Putin is facing headwinds in approval surveys, and will look to make a deal with President Karzai to secure Russian support for the Afghan government before NATO can. The issue is not of strategic importance for Russia, but primarily for domestic consumption. However, the possibility of a Western confrontation with the Russian government over Afghanistan is rising. While Russian opposition to NATO enlargement and a permanent U.S. military presence in Central Asia was strong earlier this decade, Russia now feels it has no choice but to respond more forcefully to what it perceives as actions contrary to its domestic interests.
[REDACTED]
The Opinion Pages | OP-ED COLUMNIST
Suck on This
March 3, 2005
Stories like this
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BAGHDAD - The success of the Bush team in Iraq in the next six months will prompt some serious soul-searching from the relentless critics of every American military intervention. They were wrong about Iraq once, they were wrong about Kosovo, and they’re wrong about Iraq now. What we’re doing in the Muslim world today will reshape the world for generations to come, so why not brag about it?
Bush has already restored American credibility abroad for standing up to Saddam’s genocidal regime, and he’s been delivered a second term by a grateful public at home, yet the White House feels scared to take credit for this. The Bush team got blasted for their ‘Mission Accomplished’ stunt last year by the same people who were going to attack him anyway. But it worked. The American people saw their commander-in-chief not as a wisened statesman, but a cocky flyboy, ready to blast some bad guys and wipe out undemocratic regimes around the world.
Inside Iraq, there’s a smattering of protests from washed up Saddam loyalists, but de-Ba'athification is accelerating, and thousands more former foot-soldiers of the regime will be detained in the next six months, I’m told. A senior official involved in planning the operation conveyed that most of them will be going to the same facility at Camp Bucca. Others will be placed in smaller prison sites around the country. If you talk to U.S. soldiers in Iraq, they will let you know how safe the conditions are. One near Baghdad named “The Hard Site” is thought to resemble a condo unit more than a detention facility.
Editors’ Picks
Inside the horrors of Iraqi prisons
Dismiss the Shia insurgency at your own peril
‘I have no idea why we’re here:’ speaking with the troops securing Baghdad
Claims of a major insurgency are junk regurgitated by Saddam apologists in the media. The only people calling for armed resistance against the U.S. military in Iraq are a couple of old clerics. The Viet Cong these are not. One Shia preacher giving tirades over the radio just had his newspaper shut down last week. These are the ravings of a handful of diehards, not the makings of a hardcare guerilla group.
As for all the hysteria surrounding the possibility of sectarian bloodshed, if it exists, I haven’t seen it. After the Bush team installed the Iraqi Governing Council, they stacked it with Shia leaders, to better reflect the Iraqi population than Saddam’s tyrannical government ever did. The Sunni provinces in the country are nothing to worry about, and the U.S. should not expend any resources on areas like al-Anbar, or cities like Fallujah. They are quiet now, and they will remain quiet.
Lastly, we’re not only defeating terrorists who are a threat to the entire Middle East, but we’re preventing any future ones from carrying out their vile acts. The Bush team argued for the invasion by rightly pointing out that Saddam allowed the terrorist mastermind Abu Musab al-Zarqawi to live freely in Iraq. Bush’s critics could never counter this one, and today, you don’t hear much about Zarqawi anymore. Sure, it’s because no one has found him yet, but it’s only a matter of time. So with this fantastic record, why isn’t the White House advertising it more often? Not only did we go to war in Iraq: we won.
Related stories
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www.reddit.com/r/SaddamSightings
A place to share, discuss, and analyze all the real-time sightings of former Iraqi President, current U.S. resident and lifetime Bush regime bagman Saddam “1001 Cashouts” Hussein
REAL LIFE SADDAM CAUGHT ON TAPE. Saddam Spotted In Fort Lauderdale Forida - youtube.com
Submitted Wed Mar 5 04:00:37 2008 UTC by u/AustinPowers
11 comments
[-]WiseMansBurden (16 points)
Let's let out a nice hearty LOL at all the bullshit about how he’s dead. Look at all the pics that are coming out just in south Floida. Boca Raton a few days ago. Naples just last week. We have him dead to rights.
[-]BushDiedPeopleLied (-11 points)
Um, what about the one a few days before that about how he was in Phoenix? And the one pic right before that showed him in Reno? Unless he has a private plane, how can those all be real at once? He’d be a bigger jet-setter than Jay Z and Kim K combined.
[-]PlutoIsAPlanet (6 points)
THEY ARE TRYING TO DEMORALIZE YOU
[-]WiseMansBurden (4 points)
Erm, yeah? Where do you think the bribe money went LOL
[-]PlutoIsAPlanet (3 points)
STUPID!!!!!!!!!
[-]mrbacon (11 points)
this is the vid that pissed me off the most…look at this asshole…cartier glasses…big ol rolex…fat bimbo of a gf with her louis vitton bag…all of this collusion…im disgusted…we need change…
[-]SexualCharizard (-3 points)
Do you guys really think this whole thing was a false flag? I just can’t convince myself of it. I’ve seen all the stuff you guys have posted on this subreddit. I know about the last-minute oil investments, the huge capital flight, the private jets from Baghdad, but it still doesn’t make sense. He ran that country like Sauron, what more could he have wanted?
[-]mrbacon (6 points)
it was all a scheme…look at the pics…rummy and saddam yucking it up like 2 pigs in the mud…he was poppies best friend…they planned it all from day 1…
[-]UrNewEmpire (3 points)
Think process of elimination. What was the big reason they said they invaded? WMDs. But we know that there were no WMDs anywhere. They also said we were bringing democracy to the country. Only a total moron could have thought that would actually happen. Think some more. The only ones to benefit from this entire disaster have been the weapons manufacturers. Saddam was their customer of the decade in the 1980s. They just struck another deal. Simple as that.
[-]Mando (1 point)
Do U Really Believe This
[-]UrNewEmpire (1 point)
`) //e.image = "" e.executable.push([1, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/002/135/345/53e.png'})]) } if (quickstats[0] >= 269 && Wars == 3 && e.player_answers.includes(9732)) { //Bush - Afghanistan + Iraq + Iran e.pages.push(`What other explanation is there? Saddam had to have been in on the war. They wouldn’t have invaded Iraq for no reason.
www.geocities.ws.jedimasteranthony
May 29 2005
Star Wars Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith is the best thing that’s happened since the 2002 midterm elections. I mean after the god-awful Attack of the Clones, I wondered how much more George Lucas could possibly fuck up Star Wars. But son of a bitch, he did it. Now you may have heard that the movie was screened at the Cannes film festival, for a bunch of French snobs sipping wine. But when George started speaking after the credits rolled, he told them directly what the movie was about: that other George.
That’s right. Step aside, Michael Moore, we’ve got a new hero in town. Now I wasn’t sure if George was just giving those French bastards a show, so I had to see this one for myself. After all, this is the man who thought adding CGI bullshit to the goddamn Original Trilogy was his lasting legacy. But my god, Revenge of the Sith was not only a good movie, it was a real dagger to the heart of the regime in Washington. When Anakin told Obi-Wan “you’re either with me, or you’re my enemy” I could just about picture a single tear rolling down Shrub’s cheek. Cheney is probably ordering a preemptive strike on Skywalker Ranch and calling in special forces to raid movie theaters around the country as I type this.
This is a film every American needs to see to be eligible to vote. If every citizen heard the line “so this is how liberty dies…with thunderous applause” before last November, they might have voted out the chimp. Maybe they would have spared us from this goddamned war. Maybe the religious nuts (the ones as crazy as Bush’s donors, but from a different book) wouldn’t blow up city blocks with their suicide vests every couple days. Hell, maybe those thousands of American sailors wouldn’t be at the bottom of the fucking Persian Gulf.
If that traitor at Crawford ever saw this film, he'd see the face of Anakin reflected right at him. Another boy with daddy issues who gets taken in by some old pervert with a ballsack for a face and decides to conquer the universe, one classroom full of kids at a time. The NRA knows a thing or two about that.
Right now, the most important thing we can do to protest that unelected tyrant in Washington is to support movies like Revenge of the Sith. They’re all we have left. After coming home from the theater, I saw the latest news about another attack in New York, and I couldn’t help but think whether that nutjob who pulled the ripcord on his vest wouldn’t have taken all those lives if he had listened to what Obi-Wan told Anakin on Mustafar as he was lit on fire. Either way, this is the type of film that’s going to stand the test of time. Hopefully George doesn’t put out a special edition to this one. After all, we know how this story ends. The rebels win, Darth Vader is redeemed, and the Emperor explodes. Now that’s one hell of an impeachment.
Jedi Master Anthony
—-------------------------------------
“It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.” —Tyler Durden
Jalopnik
Let’s Go Places in Syria
By Nathan Hide Published December 2, 2008 | Comments (970)
Amidst the turmoil wracking the housing market, the auto industry is near collapse, and the U.S. Federal Reserve shows no will to keep credit moving. Republican allies of President Bush are already urging him to “let Detroit go bankrupt,” and General Motors is in terminal crisis. The biggest—perhaps the only—beneficiary? Daesh.
The feared terrorist group known for beheadings, slavery, and bombing of ancient artifacts are also some of Toyota’s top customers. With American auto sales flatlining, companies have turned to increasingly marginal sources for revenue, including many foreign sales. Experts agree that in a warzone like Syria dominated by radical groups and with no central authority, the black market is bound to thrive. Toyota vehemently denounces the use of their Land Cruisers by ISIL.
Officials in Washington are growing alarmed by the ubiquity of the truck however, and top Toyota executives will appear before Congress next week to explain the issue. Toyota maintains it’s their policy “not to sell vehicles to customers who may use or modify them for illicit activities, including terrorism.” But experts agree there is simply no way to accurately track how many trucks have been stolen or sold through the black market to groups like Daesh or al-Nusra in Syria.
Toyota tells Jalopnik that the vehicles seen in videos being commandeered by terrorists in Syria are not recent models. “These are very outdated models,” one executive said, “we don’t use them anymore.” Legal sales of trucks in Iraq in 2007 were quadruple the number sold in 2006, according to a report from the U.S. State Department. That total in 2008 is expected several times higher, due to the sinking auto market here in the United States.
For some Ford executives, it’s an unfortunate inevitability of the wars abroad and the economic crisis at home. “I just wish they were driving F-150s,” one lamented.
DISCUSSION
Staff (17) Community (970)
Joe5195287
12/03/10 10:09am
People say Japan doesn’t build things anymore, but do you really think these groups in the Middle East would be buying German trucks? The fine Japanese craftsmanship with American entrepreneurship is what makes the world turn. This is the market at work.
Likes (32) Replies (109)`) //e.image = "" e.executable.push([1, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.imgur.com/gpa0qSn.png'})]) const threeWars = new Playlist(); const threeWarsWinSong = new Song( "George Bush Cut Up While Talking", "Godspeed You! Black Emperor", "https://media.pitchfork.com/photos/5929bf4cea9e61561daa7a31/1:1/w_450%2Cc_limit/a2766e8a.jpg", "https://audio.jukehost.co.uk/qXcB9aUpjA3MXVRdVzhzPWj9onqIY9ea" ); threeWars.addSong(threeWarsWinSong); changePlaylist(threeWars); } if (quickstats[0] >= 269 && Wars == 3 && e.player_answers.includes(9730)) { //Bush - Afghanistan + Iraq + N. Korea e.pages.push(`
The Hollywood Reporter
Warner Bros. email hack raises tensions
BY ED HONEY
JUNE 27, 2006 4:00AM
Investigators are probing the origins of a major security breach of Warner Brothers’ internal servers. A trove of emails were leaked, including embarrassing exchanges between top talent and studio execs, while entire scripts of highly anticipated films, like the next Harry Potter, were released in their entirety.
The FBI has already found significant leads, and THR can report that they’re pointing to an unlikely source: North Korea. The embattled communist dictatorship in East Asia evidently waged an act of “cyber terrorism” against Warner Bros to release such highly embarrassing material. This follows nearly 18 months of intermittent warfare with South Korea, and naval incidents with U.S. warships. While the regime has not taken responsibility for the leak, their state media has made numerous bellicose statements against the studio in recent months, targeting next month’s Harold and Kumar Go To Pyongyang, a sequel to the stoner comedy Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle.
While stoner comedies provoking the ire of a dictatorship obsessed with nuclear weapons may sound like a bad script, senior White House officials insist this isn’t Hollywood. “That movie came out at the worst possible time,” one anonymous source sighed. President Bush has strongly threatened a ground invasion of the North, and the November 2004 airstrikes against dozens of sites across the country nearly provoked a nuclear conflict. After South Korean President Roh Moo-hyun’s diplomatic intervention prevented a full-scale war, border clashes have heightened tensions, and the possibility of a resumption of the Korean War remains. Now, the WB hack severely complicates matters.
In a speech on June 15th, Bush gave what multiple sources close to the president tell THR was a shot across the bow to North Korean officials. “We consider any action against the United States military, our nation, or our way of life to be an act of war,” the president stated. “This can be military action, like when two ships start shooting at each other, or it can be through other methods. We know what they are, and we will retaliate with all the force it takes.” Now, the White House is reportedly considering their options against Kim Jong Il’s regime, including military action.
During the Baengnyeongdo incident in 2005, it was widely reported that the White House was hours away from triggering a massive preemptive strike against North Korea, potentially involving nuclear weapons. The November 2004 conflict has been well-publicized by Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward, whose book Strike released earlier this year. In one passage, Woodward recounts a conversation between Bush and Cheney where the president asked “hell, why don’t we just drop a nuke on the damn place?” The only thing reportedly stopping the president from triggering a nuclear strike on the Korean peninsula was the intervention of Secretary of State Colin Powell, who resigned last week. On Monday, President Bush announced he was appointing United Nations Ambassador John Bolton to fill the role.
Harold and Kumar Go To Pyongyang launches on July 14th.
Poll: Bush approval rises to 41%
June 5, 2008 -- Updated 0619 GMT
STORY HIGHLIGHTS
NEW: Tom Cruise talks “Top Gun” sequel plans
NEW: Schwarzenegger back on campaign trail
Next Article in NBC News »
WASHINGTON (NBC) -- For the first time in over two years, over 40 percent of Americans approve of President Bush, largely in response to low gas prices and success in foreign affairs.
Fifty-three percent rated his handling of the Venezuela crisis as “excellent” or “fair,” while sixty-four percent said they felt safer from terrorism in 2008 than they did four years ago.
The numbers reflect a renewed confidence in President Bush, who has largely stayed away from the presidential campaign. Among respondents who approve of Bush, over ninety percent say they will vote for the G.O.P. presidential nominee in the 2008 election.
The rebounding economy has been a major political asset for Bush, who will argue to voters that they are better off now than they were eight years ago, in his bid to keep solid Republican control of the White House.
Despite the turmoil in the petroleum industry due to the ongoing oil glut, most voters rate Bush’s handling of the economy favorably. Fifty-two percent cite his policies as ‘somewhat’ or ‘mostly’ responsible for low gas prices.
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One potential source of trouble for the president is the growing drug crisis, which sixty-eight percent of respondents expressed some concern over. According to officials, heroin addiction has risen 400% in the past five years. Cocaine imports have also skyrocketed to levels the DEA Director told Congress were ‘a five-alarm fire.’
In foreign affairs, Bush’s new hardline approach with Russia does not appear to bother voters much, with a slight plurality approving of the pivot. Following last year’s overthrow of leftist President Hugo Chavez by the militant ‘Freedomista’ group, fears over immigration and instability in Latin America were at the top of voters’ concerns in foreign policy, alongside the war in Afghanistan and terrorism.
By now, those fears have receded, as voters express little concern about Venezuela, or anywhere else in South America. The president’s praise for the Freedomistas also did not appear to concern the public, with only eighteen percent of respondents believing the U.S. government was providing covert support to the militants along the Colombia-Venezuela border. The White House has repeatedly denied all involvement in the crisis.
The effects of Bush’s rise in public approval polls on the 2008 elections are not immediately clear, although history suggests it would certainly favor the eventual Republican nominee.
“George H.W. Bush was able to ride the wave of Reagan’s success into office, despite consistently polling below his predecessor,” NBC polling director Edwin England said.
“It’s quite plausible that now Bush’s son can do the same to his successor, and the president doesn’t even have something like Iran-Contra to worry about.”
The survey's sampling error is plus or minus 2 percentage points. E-mail to a friend
Top news
Senators ‘troubled’ by reports of arms sales after CIA briefing
Families of hostages held by Taliban want ‘action, not words’
Remarks by the President in State of Union Address, 2007
https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/stateoftheunion/2007/index.html
HOUSE SPEAKER DELAY: I have the high privilege, and distinct honor, of welcoming in the President of the United States. (Applause)
PRESIDENT SHARPTON: Thank you, Mr. Speaker, and thank you, Mr. Vice President. I want to thank everyone in attendance tonight, and say hello to everyone entering and serving in the 110th Congress. (Applause)
PRESIDENT SHARPTON: And as we stand here today, I want to thank, first and foremost, Minority Leader Pastor for all we’ve been able to accomplish these past two years. Already, we’ve seen greater expansion of voting rights for those from the Mexican border to the most disadvantaged of us on the reservations, who have struggled for so long. We’ve begun a new discussion on criminal justice, focusing more and more on why the crime was committed, not who it was done by. And though our party has lost the House of Representatives, I have no fear that House Speaker DeLay will senselessly block the initiatives we will continue to work through Congress. (Applause)
PRESIDENT SHARPTON: And that’s not all. We’ve gotten boots steadily off the ground from our foreign ventures, and we’ll continue to do just that. And in these next two years, we’ll begin to expand on that even more, empowering the United Nations across the world and increasing our cooperation with our European allies. I won’t let campaigning distract our work, either; in these next two years, and with cooperation from our friends in Congress, work on overhauling our welfare and housing projects will begin. With help from America’s mayors, including my friend, Mark Green, we’ll embrace urban renewal again. I survived my childhood because of public housing projects that let the impoverished have a chance, and I want to give more people suffering through hard times another chance. And that’s not even all.
PRESIDENT SHARPTON: Our nation’s economy is better than ever, and is staying that way. Our crime rates are down, our policing practices are so much greater, and our troops are home. And now we’re in a position to make it even better. God bless you all, and bless the United States of America. (Applause)
The Glenn Beck Program
Stu Blog
07.11.2008 21:34:36
Christmas Comes Early for America
Honestly, I’m getting ready for a pretty good Christmas this year. I’ve got whiskey in the cellar. I got my hands on some nice (pre-Castro) Cuban cigars. Every day I turn on CNN to see another hysterical liberal crying and whining is like getting to open up another door in my advent calendar. And it’s only July.
But what did the Dems expect when they shoved white-hater extraordinaire Al Sharpton into the Oval Office? A guy who spent this summer calling over half the country racist? And then, when he finally gave a (fake) apology for his “indelicate words,” he clarified that he only meant over half of Congress because 100% of “good Americans” were with him.
Oh boy!
Let me remind you this is a guy who only won at all because his pet liberals at the New York Times and Washington Post were able to provide cover for him every time he said something stupid. Remember his (in)famous quote after Election Day:
“People have been saying I dragged down the Democrats because they won everywhere down ticket. If I did, it’s only because there’s a segment of this country that is terrified to see a black man succeed. They’ll cling to their guns and bigotries and hate people who aren’t like them to explain their failures in life.”
Wow. Just because you won’t vote for a man who has sparked more riots than Rodney King, you’re a racist! And a bigot! And a loser! To all the self-hating, Ivy League liberals out there: If you’re willing to vote for a guy who thinks you’re a racist, then more (white) power to you.
All these “bad vibes” (this is my attempt at Sharpton’s so-called youth outreach) might explain why he hasn’t gotten anything done, despite having a huge majority in his first two years and insiders like David Axelrod yammering in his ear about how to manage Congress. The Good Reverend refused to give an inch of his liberal credentials, refused to compromise on anything. Sure, it made the socialists like Bernie Sanders and Paul “Cry Baby” Wellstone happy, but it’s meant he’s got nada to campaign on this year. With the economy going down the toilet, he might have less than nada—if that’s possible.
No wonder his vice president Graham fled the scene at the Convention. I wouldn’t want to stand next to a fat, crooked loser like Sharpton myself. Hopefully they have his new running mate Turner on suicide watch.
But that’s only a small part of the overall picture. What he’s done for our troops over the last three years is absolutely inexcusable. His opposition to the war, while I believe it was misled, is completely fine. He underestimated our military and their ability to win in Iraq and Afghanistan--which they were clearly doing under Bush--but he’s not the only member of the Democrat Party like that. No, what sets him apart is him running his mouth off.
He said: “We have to accept we did wrong, and I don’t just mean Bush starting these wars. We have to have a conversation about how we pressured our soldiers to become killers of innocent civilians in cold blood.”
He went on to say that “this is why people hate us” and that “killing women and children is the fastest way to get attacked.”
Which AGAIN is just more blaming. AGAIN and AGAIN, Sharpton can’t find anything to do but blame other people for his failures. He waddles from place to place spewing hate and lies about the very people who are protecting our freedom. This is a man who doesn’t just dislike America, but DESPISES it. He wants to run this country into the ground and the Democrats let him.
They deserve to get buried and it looks like they will.
But I’ve said enough already. With the Loser-in-Chief’s approval near 34% (according to the pencilnecks at Gallup) and even the most hardcore liberal on MSNBC predicting a landslide loss against McCain, we’ll have order restored soon. I wish we had an actual conservative on the ticket but—hey—we can’t get everything on our Christmas lists can we?
REDS BLOG
This post was made by user BeretLover.
Holy shit, guys. I know I don’t post often here anymore, but look at this url - SharptonForChange2008.com. Yes, it’s a real website. Yes, it looks to be under construction. Yes, it does not indicate anything stating Sharpton wants to run for the demonrats again. Ik people here aren’t the biggest fan of Sharpton but holy shit holy shit. He’s been the only person in Washington fighting against those pedo Republicans (Remember Hastert???) for a while and even minority leader Hoyer gave up on him. Is he the man we need to fight the two party duopoly??? (hehehehe). Fuckin dems never even gave him the time of day. Republicans mad much their pedo house speaker and golden boy Bush lost???
Reply by GeorgeBushCommittedWarCrimes
lol. Can’t say this was unexpected. Also holy shit has anyone in the press noticed yet?
>Reply by BeretLover
i don’t know. i refuse to believe im the first person to find this. its just like right there.
>>Reply by GeorgeBushCommittedWarCrimes
Maybe he’s the proletariat hero we needed all along. the only man willing to fight the two parties..
>>>Reply by BeretLover
i should get involved with the Greens to try to get them to endorse them
Reply by Ilostajob
are you guys stupid? how is Sharpton a class collab? he “collabed” with dems as long as he saw fit until…
[CLICK TO SEE MORE]
SomethingAwful › Debate & Discussion › 01-20-08 Lieberman Press Conference discussion
Dr. Squid
Iraq, cabinet, economy, social security, environment and cabinet are expected to be on topic.
Lieb taking the podium now.
Press will be allowed to ask Qs. Will post full transcript when done.
Dr. Squid fucked around with this message at 13:57 on Jan 20, 2008
monkeyspanx
oh shit does he look bad lmao. It’s like someone got a honey-glazed ham and let it sit on a windowsill.
e: If you dont have cable CSPAN webcast has it.
monkeyspanx fucked around with this message at 10:43 on Jan 20, 2008
sexfart
Shit, and me without teevee until tomorrow : (
ManManManMan
Oh, I’m sure the press are getting ready for some real JV junior high softball team questions. That interview with Couric on Saddam and “our ties with Israel” was the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen. No pushback.
Dr. Squid
they just started. the first question is about Fed and the housing market (snore).
paraphrased: “Confidence is down since almost one year ago. Are there structural problems in the market that Americans should be aware of?”
Will-i-Wont
:hmmyes: i can feel the paul people already frothing at the mouth (buy gold, kill your parents)
ManManManMan
Hahahaaah gently caress, he really wants to move on now.
“We are monitoring these signals closely but have important priorities regarding our safety as a nation” --what are you talking about???
E: OH MY GOD.
ManManMan fucked around with this message at 10:48 on Jan 20, 2008
ProForma
BUSH.
GlassOfAss
:siren: HE BROUGHT BUSH. :siren:
sexfart
Oh shit, are you all for real? I can’t watch.
Dr. Squid
BUSH BUSH BUSH BUSH BUSH
WE MISSED YOU YOU LOVABLE MORON.
Will-i-Wont
BUSH TAKE ME NOW.
E: HE LOOKS SO HAPPY TO BE THERE : 3
ManManMan fucked around with this message at 10:05 on Jan 20, 2008
trash
that 60 minutes interview he did was the saddest thing i’ve ever seen. dude would NOT LET UP on cheney ruining everything.
Applebottom
george take me in your big strong arms and gently caress me. i’ll let you be the daddy you never had.
ProForma
There was a good Daily Show bit about him having to sneak away to cry at the Inauguration. I’ll try to find the link.
E: Oh God, this is going to be another one of Lieberman’s bipartisanship spiels again, isn’t it? JUST BECOME A REPUBLICAN ALREADY.
ManManManMan fucked around with this message at 11:08 on Jan 20, 2008
Dr. Squid
He can’t become a Republican because they kicked out his bffs (Bush and McCain)
Now it’s just Paul (crazy), Hickabee (stupid) and Cain (crazy & stupid)
Obligatory “kill your parents,” etc.
sexfart
Guys please, what are they saying? I can’t watch : (((((
ManManManMan
It’s really just the same old, same old. He’s bringing Bush aboard as part of an informal group of advisors focused on foreign policy to help develop policy re: Iraq. He is “deeply concerned” about intel suggesting Saddam is developing WMDs and wants a “whole-of-nation approach” (whatever the gently caress that means) to address it.
Environmental policy and social security stuff on hold while he briefs Congress.Planning to get Fuerth, Clark to talk about it at the UN in the coming weeks.
monkeu
WATCH LIEBERMAN START A FUCKING WAR
The COINdinistas
23 Nov. 2005
President Wellstone’s White House is brimming with ideological zealots. No, not the Sixties-style liberals trying to push an expansive healthcare bill through an unwilling Congress. Not the protectionist warriors picking up the sword of Ross Perot to cut free trade agreements to ribbons. And definitely not the neocons of the Bush days, who leaned on the president to always intervene militarily, with mixed results.
No, the zealots of the Wellstone administration are the COINdinistas. It may seem odd that military theorists pushing a counterinsurgency doctrine have been so well-received in the White House. After all, the president was elected on a staunchly anti-war platform, promising a quick withdrawal and defense spending cuts. But the latter are negotiable to these COINdinistas. In fact they’re eager to slash Cold War era programs better suited to fight a peer competitor like Russia or China. These warriors are far more concerned with the hearts and minds of a targeted populace. Their hero is Edward Lansdale, not MacArthur. To them, wars must be fought with extensive psychological warfare operations, an understanding of the country’s culture, and limited ground troops.
The COINdinistas’ undisputed leader is David Petraeus, a career Army officer whose dizzying rise has ruffled feathers in the Pentagon—he was just promoted to General three weeks ago—but has had an unusually close relationship with President Wellstone. The Sixties radical and the General isn’t a bad B-movie, it’s what I’m told is the “dominant” dynamic in the West Wing. “Petraeus leans on Wellstone so hard, he’s fallen over,” one longtime Wellstone aide grumbled.
Now, it appears the president’s withdrawal plans have been significantly modified. Tens of thousands of troops are coming home, that’s not in dispute. But the counterinsurgency tactics used with shocking effectiveness will be ramped up. Some inside the Pentagon question whether they can even work. “It’s all about this ‘limited war’ or ‘low-intensity conflict’ bullshit,” one former General ranted. “The truth is they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. We had the same rodeo in El Salvador, and all it did was kill a lot of people, it didn’t beat any guerillas.”
These counterinsurgency warriors’ somewhat ironic nickname evokes a humiliating defeat for the concept of low-intensity warfare. The Nicaraguan Sandinistas infuriated the Reagan administration, prompting a massive CIA campaign to aid the Contras, which blew up in the president’s face. The Sandinistas were ultimately defeated, but after Reagan left office, and in a presidential election, not on the battlefield.
Stories of U.S. jets dropping bombs on the wrong targets, accidentally killing civilians, have garnered headlines in recent months. But in the COINdinista theory, this is the unwieldy hammer to the far more effective scalpel. In President Wellstone’s recent Pentagon budget request, the overall sum was about 5% lower than where his predecessor left it. But there has been a massive 400% increase in funds to the Army’s storied special-operations forces. As one senior administration official told me, “it’s not like we’re doubling down on the war, we’re not sending 40,000 troops like those Pentagon assholes kept telling us to.” But when I asked about the prospect of full withdrawal, he was testy, “look, that was never going to happen with Congress as it is, and all of the president’s agenda in the air.”
Making compromises in Washington is nothing new, but with Wellstone’s ambitious domestic agenda getting off to a slow start, those that may pay the price will be thousands of miles away.
DEMOCRIPS, WELCOME TO DENVER!
vault.fbi.gov
Pamphlet for 2008 DNC protest from People’s Action Revolutionary Voice Now (2007-2009)
File Number: 97-17329
Notes: Urgent - fr dir. humint
DEMOCRIPS, WELCOME TO DENVER!
The Demoncorp establishment has flown down from their nuclear shelters in New Zealand and tax havens in the Bahamas to anoint the next FASCIST-IN-CHIEF in Denver. Paul WARSTONE’s time is up, but we cannot let Hitlery Crimeton crown herself the victor. The Denver pigs are lining the streets, enforcing their totalitarian police state, and we know how they’re going to treat the million person march next week in St. Paul to protest the Rebloodlican establishment.
In Denver, we’re expecting HUNDREDS of people to turn out and take action to make their voices heard. We’ve seen how Warstone BALKANIZED Iraq with that thug Biden carving up the country. Millions have died, and the blood is on the hands of the Demoncrips. Iraqization is a SHAM, and tens of thousands of Amerikkkan pigs are still butchering that country. It was SHRUB’s war and now it’s WARSTONE’s war!
We cannot allow the totalitarian wrecker groups like [REDACTED], [REDACTED], and [REDACTED] to ruin this protest with their bootlicking red-brown alliance. They say they’re each gathering hundreds of thousands to Denver, but PARVN is gathering HUNDREDS. Their collaborationist agenda is drawing attention away from the real revolutionaries. We can’t let fash like Michael SNORE destroy this powerful movement. We’re not just protesting this sham coronation, we’re here to make our voices heard at the protest as well!
- People’s Action Revolutionary Voice Now`) //e.image = "" e.executable.push([1, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.imgur.com/8Njrgjo.png'})]) } if (quickstats[0] <= 268 && Wars == 3 && Dem == 4) { //Wellstone - 3 wars e.pages.push(`
DEMOCRATIC UNDERGROUND DOT COM
DEMOCRATIC UNDERGROUND DOT COM > msnbc - rice leading wellstone. If true, this country is farther off track than imagined
Home » Discuss » General Discussion (1/22-2007 thru 12/14/2010)
msnbc - rice leading wellstone. If true, this country is farther off track than imagined
Red Dog Dem (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:31 PM
If not true, we’ve got a media
fabricating polls
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/
Jackalope Radical (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:33 PM
1. I vote for “fabricating polls.”
Fox-level polling.
lonestarliberal (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:34 PM
2. Interesting. The whole system is against us.
https://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/11/us/politics/democrats-look-for-exit
WhatWouldntWDo (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:38 PM
3. just not true.
World Citizen (421 posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:41 PM
4. DO NOT believe any poll.
The defense contractors that control the news want us to give up and stay home. I refuse to believe that we are behind 5 points in Ohio when Wellstone has been working every day to get us out of these wars that Dubya started. Americans will NOT vote for more of the same, just because she’s black and a woman. They’ve seen what Republicans are capable of. They understand who the ENEMY is.
Red Dog Dem (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:44 PM
5. not giving up, it’s the democrats against the media & thugs
cspanner (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:44 PM
6. I wouldn’t believe those polls, remember who we are dealing with
the bush propaganda machine
PatriotGames (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:44 PM
7. Hmmmm…..poll conducted 7/9-10…..in the middle of bailout coverage
perhaps bailouts not a good idea. foxes in henhouse with eizenstat
Look up ATLANTIC COUNCIL
CAPTAIN AMERIKA (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:49 PM
8. If they tell us to give up, just remember how much worse it can get…
1. America is bankrupting itself in foreign wars. If you thought the Recession with US troops in three separate conflicts, wait until Condi and Santorum start wars 4, 5, & 6. Listen to their rhetoric on CHINA/TAIWAN. Listen to what happened after Wellstone stopped the TORTURE.
2. Yes, Wellstone hasn’t been able to push congress to pass a public option or much else thru Congress bc of budget hawks but look at all the EOs he’s signed. CNN says it’s more than ANY PRESIDENT IN HISTORY. He’s doing what he can.
3. The bailout packages are not pretty but they’re the only thing keeping workers employed. Remember what happened when the auto bailout failed. All those GM & Chrysler workers out on the street… Wellstone learned from that and is listening to the experts.
They want you to think Wellstone can’t come back from this. They’re trying as hard as they can to steal this election, but everybody knows it’s closer than they’re saying. Everyone I know is voting Wellstone.
ContraryContrarian (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:50 PM
9. Poll conducted today:
Rice 350 - Wellstone 185 - Tied 3
http://www.electoral-vote.com/
Bush broke the entire system. I don’t think we’re ever recovering from this.
godspeedblackemperor (211 posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:53 PM
10. we are trapped inside a machine and the machine is bleeding to death
https://www.washingtonpost.com/us/2008/07/05/withdrawal-bill-pulled-capitol-protests
nomorevotegore04 (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 09:56 PM
11. Really odd, activist energy is really with Wellstone. Are they counting young voters?
Like people have said here, I think the polls are skewed by the fact that they’re polling equal numbers of Democrats and Republicans PLUS they aren’t polling people online, which is where most young people are. All the forums I’m on are full of people glad they aren’t going to be drafted to fight Dumb Dubya’s Disasterous Wars.
Hardhatdem (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 10:28 PM
12. With Faux news and ‘talking heads’ running anti-Wellstone propaganda 24-7, is it any wonder?
It’s amazing they’re only leading by this much.
I’m planning to move to Canada before January so I can avoid the nightmare that Rice & her corporate backers are planning. I suggest everyone here do it too. Republican wave in 2006 was bad enough. All three branches being Rethuglican is scary…..
The only question is whether the Paulites stay in line. Already talking about a third-party run in 2012 if she wins and then things will get real spooky…….
BROOKLYN MOM DEFIANT (1000+ posts) Send PM | Profile | Ignore Fri Jul-11-08 11:37 PM
13. YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED
I TOLD YOU ALL THAT THE ONLY CANDIDATE WHO COULD WIN WAS HILLARY AND YET YOU ALL TOLD ME I WAS AN IDIOT> WELL, WHO IS LAUGHING NOW?????
I’M VOTING CONDI SO WE CAN GET REAL CHANGE. CONDI 08 & HILLARY 2012!!!! WELCOME TO WOMEN”S WORLD`) //e.image = "" e.executable.push([1, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.imgur.com/AcvoNUl.png'})]) const threeWars = new Playlist(); const threeWarsWinSong = new Song( "George Bush Cut Up While Talking", "Godspeed You! Black Emperor", "https://media.pitchfork.com/photos/5929bf4cea9e61561daa7a31/1:1/w_450%2Cc_limit/a2766e8a.jpg", "https://audio.jukehost.co.uk/qXcB9aUpjA3MXVRdVzhzPWj9onqIY9ea" ); threeWars.addSong(threeWarsWinSong); changePlaylist(threeWars); } if (quickstats[0] <= 268 && Dem == 3) { //Edwards e.pages.push(`
PerezHilton Dot Com: OMG! Is the Prez Playing the Field?
August 13th, 2008
Uh oh! Drama Alert!!! According to several exclusive sources, it looks like President Edwards might be once again playing the field.
For all of you not in the political know, things for President Edwards have been fraying faster than Hillary’s split ends ever since First Lady Liz Edwards passed away in ‘06. It’s not just the nasty NAFTA bill tanking (Yikes!) or the fashion faux pas with Harper (talk about a slow shuffle!), but tons of mistakes that have made most Americans want to say Farewell to the Chief.
In June, we published rumors that President Johnny was spotted snuggling up to a woman at a Nebraska rally. Now, it may just get worse. We now have EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS of the pair strolling hand in hand through the Bundestag gardens after some G7 pow-wow.
Talk about Putin the right foot forward! Is this the Commander-in-Chief scoring some poon, or just taking a stroll in the park? Your guess is as good as ours.
Whether real or not, these BOMBSHELL allegations could straight-up bulldoze Edwards' campaign. That sympathy wave he caught after First Lady Edwards' passing? Poof, gone. Mike Huckabee, the Crazy Homophobic Presumptive Republican nominee, released a statement when these stories first emerged. In a speech earlier this month, he said:
"The American people deserve transparency and honesty. If there's any truth to these allegations, it's a grave disservice to the public."
This is just the latest in a string of total flops that have stalked the President, a huge problem when Johnny never seems like he’s telling the truth! Just last week, Jimmy Kimmel compared him to Huey Lewis-loving Patrick Bateman, killing primary challenger Mike Gravel with a fire ax. Yeowch!
Edwards is taking an absolute shellacking in the polls, with 57% of Americans giving his tenure a big thumbs down. He's slipping behind candidates like Huckabee, Tancredo, and Perry, all of whom have jumped onto these reports while John continues to avoid mentioning it.
For the sake of all our gays out there, let’s PRAY that Edwards is able to work off a PR miracle before the election. Maybe he can make this whole thing less of a Monica and more like Aaron Sorkin’s The American President.
For now, though, the White House has yet to comment.`) //e.image = "" e.executable.push([1, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.imgur.com/sG3ZdaK.png'})]) } if (quickstats[0] <= 268 && Wars == 1 && Dem == 2) { //Gore - 1 war e.pages.push(`
DeathCabKitty’s LiveJournal: The Birth of a Meme, or Why I Love the Internet (Part One Billion)
Previous Entry | Next Entry
November 1, 2008 at 1:14 PM
It’s November, which means we’re in the middle of that age-old tradition where the American people go through the motions of choosing a candidate of someone else’s choosing. In the age of the internet, this solemn tradition has been augmented with flame wars, epithets, and trolling. There’s been high moments (still rofling at whoever wore their fursuit to meet Tipper Gore) and low (just take a look at some of the cringey Republican outreach on TheFacebook).
Today, I want to focus on one of the highest highs, a moment that shows the kinds of creativity and community that’s possible on the World Wide Web. I want to talk about the #thompsondeathrally.
If you missed it, #thompsondeathrally was a meme on Twitter, a web blog site that launched about two years ago where you can only post up to 140 characters. When it launched, most of the users were people in tech and there were only sporadic posts, but membership has surged over the election to 1.5+ million users and almost 5 million messages a day. It’s crazy growth in the middle of a recession and one of the things that contributed to this rise was #thompsondeathrally.
If you do a search on Twitter for #thompsondeathrally, you’ll find some of the best group fiction ever. The posts tell a strange, disjointed account of a political rally straight out of H.P. Lovecraft, with bizarre rites taking place on stage to rescue Fred Thompson’s flailing campaign.
GreenDamien @thegreenster
Fred Thompson opens with a shoutout to his “Fred Heads.” He then reveals what appears to be the severed head of Ronald Reagan. It begins to scream. #ThompsonDeathRally
David Daniels @ddaniels213
“No child left behind!” Campaign volunteers separate a mother from her children. They’re dragging them to the stage. I see the glint of a knife. #ThompsonDeathRally
Aubrey Lee @swordnstoner
Thompson-Frist, Frist-Thompson. Nominee and running mate merge as one. This is the only way to assure party unity, they say with two mouths.
#ThompsonDeathRally
adam t @athomthompson
“Life begins at implantation.” The masses shriek with delight as Thompson vomits another glistening egg into a woman’s open mouth. #ThompsonDeathRallyThe hash tag went on for days as the Internet hive-mind put together a communal vision of a nightmarish rally.
Obama 2012 @georgeyjordans3
“We will re-privatize health care. We will re-privatize sanity. We will re-privatize God.” #ThompsonDeathRally
Candy Morgennthau @camorgenn
Bush flails as they lay him out on the altar. His father is brought out after him. No more tolerance for failure. #ThompsonDeathRally
Problem Sleuth @mspafan
#thompsondeathrally staffers keep saying we need to stop the troop withdrawal, finish the job. It’s a chant. The moon turns blood-red.
Suzanne Wallace @suzieqwallacee
A sting on my arm. When I look down, a locust with Oliver North’s face is gorging messily on my flesh. I understand now. #thompsondeathrallyEven I got in on the action.
Laurie Childs @deathcabbkitty
Mike Huckabee stands inside an effigy made to resemble the Green Cities Act. With a wide smile, he lights a match. #ThompsonDeathRallyEventually some reporters took notice. The Chicago Tribune published a bemused article titled, “Internet Geeks Imagine Thompson Using ‘Satanic Powers’ (describing Lovecraft as Satanic makes me wince but we). The weirdos at Breitbart, meanwhile, published something with the title, “Twitter Users Threaten Thompson, Republicans.” Losers.
Like a lot of memes, this whole thing started small, not as a set of “death threats” against Fred Thompson (as much as I’m sure he would love the attention. According to data nerd Nate Silver, he’s polling in the mid-40s in must-win states). It started because he held a campaign rally in Pennsylvania. Then it started to get cold and, for whatever reason, his security refused to let people leave. After the fact, they told people it was because of “security” (though I think we all know it’s because he didn’t want the cameras seeing him talking to no one).
The whole thing is a PR own-goal from Thompson, sparked by staffers doing something really stupid and reporters being bored by a dull election. As much as I’m sure Thompson and Hilldawg would love Gore to lose (did you see her complaining about Gore going “far left” ever since he grew that beard lawl), I don’t think it’s going to happen unless they really do summon Cthulhu.
Anyways, I’d encourage you to register a Twitter account and see the rest of the posts yourself. I’ll return to my usual Harry Potter posting once this election is over. Until then, enjoy!`) //e.image = "" e.executable.push([1, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.imgur.com/xKW0ZTb.png'})]) } if (quickstats[0] <= 268 && Wars == 2 && Dem == 2) { //Gore - 2 war e.pages.push(`
They're already talking about shutting down the goddamn government
by Jeffrey Lawson | Daily Kos staff writer
Tue Nov 07, 2006 at 11:08:04 AM PDT
Yikes. The polls haven’t even closed yet and Republicans are already talking about shutting down the government if they take over the House:
Rep. Phil English: Gore might ‘force’ House to shut down government
A top House Republican today told reporters that President Gore might try to “force a shutdown” to harm Republicans.
Rep. Phil English said that with “a ballooning deficit, slowing economic conditions, and an intransigent and unreasonable president,” Republicans should be ready to “put on a brave face” come time for budget negotiations.
“I think, given his history, he’ll veto any budget bill we pass to him and then the hard vote will be, when he forces us to vote on them again, whether we will have to deal with another situation where we might need to shut down the government. It’s not something that anyone wants but, if we want people to know we have principles, we have to be brave,” explained English on Fox Business.
Okay, first of all, the election isn’t even over yet, asshat. Polls remain open and it’s not like the Hastert sex crime bullshit is winning over a lot of people actually paying attention this election. If you go over to NYT (“Four Possible Outcomes for This Year’s Midterms”), you’ll see that Democrats still have a chance to hang onto their seats in the South if they can turn out enough young voters.
Second of all, even if Republicans do somehow take control, the House doesn’t even fucking send spending bills to the president. That’s the Senate. If the Republicans take over the House it’s just one chamber and they’ll still have to contend with the other. That’s what having a bicameral legislature means. This scenario that English is thinking up would require Republicans to take over the Senate too, which is something that everyone thinks is absolute fantasy. The chamber that only narrowly defeated a climate treaty isn’t going to flip.
Third, even if they do somehow manage to take both chambers and they do send a spending bill to Gore that is so egregious (e.g. ending the climate programs, trying to reverse the Iraq pullout, forcing him to cut spending again to balance the budget) that he can’t sign it, that won’t cause the government to shut down. Congress can still pass a continuing resolution to keep last year’s spending levels without an agreement with the president. At that point, it’s just Congress’s fault.
What all this means in the end is that the Republicans are engaging in political terrorism. They’re trying to frighten voters into giving them the solutions they want, to sabotage the peace-building efforts that Gore has been pursuing to end Bush’s disastrous wars. It’s just like when they leaked those stories about Usama “planning attacks” to terrify people into thinking they made a mistake in tossing out Bush. They’re getting together and doing what they can to ensure this country fails so they can blame Gore. They can't pass the buck on their failed agenda. It’s time for them to "man up" and take responsibility for their actions.
Discuss (119 comments)`) //e.image = "" e.executable.push([1, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.imgur.com/u9mOb08.png'})]) } if (quickstats[0] <= 268 && Wars == 3 && Dem == 2) { //Gore - 3 war e.pages.push(`
Gore’s Great Giveaway to the Communists
Eagle Forum Newsletter | August 25, 2008
Our economic problems are not just because of the China issue. While, indeed, they’ve been raking in billions of dollars thanks to Gore’s support of Climate Change Cash Grabs and government policies that encourage well-paying U.S. manufacturing jobs to move overseas, much of what we see today has been the result of our own would-be Stalins and Trotskys.
The collapsing stock market? A symptom of socialistic speculators sure of a government safety net. Rising unemployment? A result of our centrally mismanaged economy run by McKinsey kiddos. Skyrocketing oil prices and a sub-prime mortgage collapse? Well, we have no one to thank for that except our wannabe despot, our go-it-alone globalist, George W. Bush.
For the past eight years, Americans have been forced to put up with all manner of socialistic chicanery—whether it be three senseless, draining wars, the failed bail-outs of Bear Stearns, AIG, and Morgan Stanley, or the more recent foolish, bureaucrat-led attempts to force incandescent light bulbs out of the home.
At a time when U.S. coffers were already running dry and the national mood was at an all-time low, Gore and his band of communists gave a half-billion dollars to AstroPower to subsidize making solar panels, yet the company promptly went bankrupt. Then Gore awarded a quarter of a million—tacked on to the yearly budget like an ornament on a Christmas tree—to a little-known firm called Tesla Motors to make batteries for its electric cars, only for that company to go bankrupt too. It is now trying to pay off its investors by auctioning the company.
The two highest bidders in an auction earlier this year were the Soros-owned Lehman Brothers and the Wanxiang Group, which has close ties to Communist China’s government through its CEO, a prominent figure in the Chinese Community Party.
What these developments demonstrate is a systematic plot to weaken America, to drain Fort Knox with expensive wars and senseless programs and then sell off the proceeds for pennies on the dollar to our ideological adversaries. In China’s hands, this new Tesla Motors technology could threaten U.S. electrical power and be used to sabotage our grid.
Of course, the liberal New York Times calls on us not to overreact, to not turn away from the “internationalization” of the last two presidents with “isolationism” (a term that speaks of their elitist disdain for everyday Americans suffering under senseless trade deals, pacts, and treaties). They call us to swallow the bail-outs and the hand-outs pushed through by Gore’s Kamarck-Klain Klan, bills made possible by a web of deception about the strength of our private enterprise system (which has never been the cause of job loss).
These same deceptions seek to hide the drain of the millions of illegals and asylum seekers now burdening our welfare systems—another gift courtesy of the Bush-Gore duopoly. Sooner or later, these parasites will wind up doing more than just growing our debt, they’ll seek to avenge their homelands using the same tactics that Usama Bin Laden tried in the 1990s. We’ve already seen repeated attacks on American embassies in the Middle East and Europe.
Luckily, Americans seem to be waking up to the catastrophe inflicted on them by the country’s socialistic elites. Al Gore is not running for president, a decision undoubtedly motivated by his low approval ratings, and instead throwing his support behind the gaffer-in-chief Vice President Biden. It is obvious that Gore hopes to exploit Biden’s good relationship with Congress and his running mate Barack Hussein Obama’s popularity with the radical left to preserve Democrat control of the government.
On the Republican side, real conservatives have finally prevailed. After a near-decade-long occupation, the party cast out the Bush Crime Family and their Trotskyist supporters Rummy, Cheney, and Powell. They rejected the “McCain Lite” Jon Huntsman and Bush Lackey Zell Miller. They have finally embraced a true conservative who is ready to fight against socialist excess, who is committed to removing us from these foreign wars, a proven leader who will shut down our borders until we overcome our current crises—The Apprentice himself, Donald J. Trump
While you all know I have been a supporter of Trump’s since Day One and have been providing him with my decades of political wisdom through this historic run, I hope you will join us on this journey to restore our country to greatness. With your help, we can end the America Last foreign policy of the last generation and bring about a domestic agenda that helps real, hard-working American families.
Further Reading:
AVAILABLE NOW: Faithfully Phyllis In the Kitchen: Purchase $15, 10% of proceeds go to the Tancredo for America Fund!
FiveThirtyEight Blog: On the Road: Des Moines, Iowa
Posted by Sean Quinn at 4:44 PM, October 14
There were the most beautiful bevies of girls everywhere I looked in Des Moines that afternoon — they were coming home from high school — but I had no time now for thoughts like that and promised myself a ball in Denver… . So I rushed past the pretty girls, and the prettiest girls in the world live in Des Moines.
Most of her life, Janice Reynolds lived life as a Republican, volunteering for Bush in 1992 and his son in 2000. After Hillary tossed her hat in the ring in 2004 and she saw an opportunity to elect America’s first female president, Janice threw herself into life as a “Hillary for America” organizer. She had high hopes for the re-election campaign in 2008, but she had questions, namely: “Why aren’t we canvassing yet?”
Accustomed to the energy of the ‘04 race, it seemed strange to her that Hillary’s campaign was letting go of the network of activist women that had brought it so much success a few years ago. People aren’t knocking on doors or organizing any more “women’s potlucks” in Des Moines. Phonebanking, sure, but it seemed like in the final stretch the campaign is being asked to pursue different tactics to halt Dolementum.
“They have all these data consultants who tell us where to direct our energy,” says Janice, settling into her role as one of Hillary’s Des Moines Community Directors. “It’s more sophisticated than anything I could come up with. They have numbers that show that it’s eyes and ears, not feet that will win this race.”
Hillary for America Director James O’Brian showed us some of their work, demonstrating a map dividing Des Moines into 41 neighborhoods with their own specialized characteristics. In each of these neighborhoods, the campaign has several Neighborhood Team Leaders doing what they call “hyper-targeting”—using personalized text messages and phone calls to turn out voters, with occasional “direct in-person appeals.” O’Brian said each NTL had undergone and met a series of specific challenges the field organizers had presented.
(If you want more on Clinton’s unique ground game, check out Al Giordano’s blog, The Field.)
Whether Team Hillary’s high-tech approach to the campaign season remains to be seen, though Janice smiled as she told us about how the approach had yielded multiple, unofficial “satellite offices” from highly motivated supporters reached via text, phone, or social media. These volunteers were invited to meet with NTL for intensive training, derived from focus group experimentation, on the kinds of messages that might resonate with their voters.
With Hillary in town, the energy was less on these efforts and more on providing the candidate with an audience for her economic address. Since the economic downturn that began this summer with the popping of the housing bubble and near-failure of several major U.S. banks, Clinton has refocused her campaign less away from the domestic terror and foreign policy topics that are her clear preference toward what Secretary of Treasury Corzine has delightfully termed “food on table” issues, with the stalled healthcare reform drive and investments in high-tech industries forming the basis of that.
Enthusiastic support from volunteers notwithstanding, it’s unclear the degree to which this message is resonating with Iowa voters and others across the Midwest. Putting aside the lack of investment in the state from the Clinton camp (this is the first visit to a potential tipping point state in weeks, with most of the President’s focus being directed toward New Orleans and Chicago), neither the program nor the dysfunction a divided Washington brings much more than tepid crowds in this farm state.
Local Republicans have exploited spotty attendance to hold small protests outside campaign venues with a pantsless, lipstick-stained Bill Clinton impersonator—an attack that has dogged Hillary these past few years. Clinton Field Team Leader Ken Holland described the man’s appearance as “disheartening” when I pointed him out. “That Republicans, even with their nominee, disparage the first female president with these kinds of personal attacks is the height of misogyny.”
Nonetheless, it’s these kinds of troubles that make most Republicans regret sitting out this race during the primaries. Dole remains neck-and-neck (per Nate’s latest projections), but as the New York Times reported yesterday, large numbers of conservatives believe that their nominee’s views are out of step with the party overall, leading to dampening enthusiasm. More problematically, the presence of two women in the contest—while historically significant—is proving a real problem for Republicans trying to turnout male, conservative-leaning voters.
We’ll be following Elizabeth Dole’s campaign in Ohio tomorrow as it goes between Marietta and Athens. After that, we’ll rejoin the Clinton camp in Cleveland where she’ll be having her first major rally with her husband. We look forward to reporting to you then.`) //e.image = "" e.executable.push([1, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.imgur.com/s99Fi0t.png'})]) } if (quickstats[0] <= 268 && Wars == 0 && Dem == 7) { //Kennedy - 0 war e.pages.push(`
Huffington Post: Campaign Pre-Mortem: Dems Lifted By Kennedy’s Coattails, GOP Sinks Further Into the Crazy
Posted April 12, 2008 04:22 PM
By Arianna
Read More: [Martin Luther King Jr.], [Ted Kennedy], [Ron Paul], [George W. Bush]
On the eve of his historic health care vote, President Kennedy spoke to House Democrats. He began his remarks by invoking the memory of Martin Luther King, Jr.: “Of all the forms of inequality, injustice in health is the most shocking and inhumane.”
The moment cast in sharp relief the difference between the two parties. As Democrats lined up for floor speeches extolling a bill that would—after a yearlong process of negotiations and compromises—give Americans a public option and real care to millions, Republicans spent their time in lockstep opposition. The biggest question was not whether any Republican congressmen would support a bill destined to pass, but who would trot out the most outlandish and overwrought objection.
Indeed, as I watched this and other fights over the last three years, I’ve been reminded of another Martin Luther King quote, delivered as part of a sermon in 1963 as he struggled to advance the cause of the marginalized and dispossessed. It came amid similar, kneejerk opposition: “The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of convenience and comfort, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.”
If we’re seeing this degree of opposition in times of unprecedented peace, with a good (albeit slowing) economy, and a popular president, what can we expect when times get tough? It’s enough to make you miss the good-natured bungling of early George W. Bush.
Today, the GOP is more radical than it has ever been. Since it evicted Bush and Cheney’s sycophants and installed Ron Paul’s lunatics, the party has picked fights it hasn’t needed to against people it can’t afford. It tried to draw out confirmation hearings against Justice Janet Reno and halt efforts to reform No Child Left Behind. It nearly derailed immigration reform with poison pill amendments, obstructed the National Education Trust Fund, and made hearings on trade agreements with China into highly televised circuses with their stunts.
Their toxic smokescreen of fear-mongering (immigrants are “invading our borders”; green energy investment “will bankrupt the country”) and cynical un-truths (Kennedy’s executive orders will “force gays into our churches”) reveal a party standing in the doorway of progress.
While many of the Democratic Party’s policies are deeply flawed (the rich have gotten richer, largely due to compromises between the White House and Blue Dogs) there’s no denying that the lives of millions of Americans will be improved because of what the Democrats have done. The agenda post-2008 looks to address the few problems that exist, starting with Kennedy’s promise to let Bush’s tax cuts expire at the end of 2010.
Unless they return to sanity, the GOP risks sinking into further irrelevance. It would take a truly cataclysmic, earth-shattering development to reverse the gains of the last three years and Kennedy’s sky-high approval ratings (64% by Gallup’s last count).
So long as the sun keeps shining in Washington, the doom and gloom of nominee presumptive Paul is unlikely to appeal to more than the over-stimulated, online fringes.
What we need now are Republican leaders who can take inspiration from King and his words, who will approach issues decently and honestly. Far be it from me to praise George Bush, but now might be the time for a return to “compassionate conservatism.”
Related News on Huffington Post:
Arnie Faces Budget Crunch in California
Bush’s New Book: Media Reactions for Upcoming Tell-All
Too Much and Never Enough? Sen. Sanders Warns of Housing Bubble
Related Blogs on the Huffington Post:
Fannie Mae I? Tips for First-Time Homeowners Seeking to Refinance Loans
The Shadow Cabinet
washingtonpost.com > Opinions
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Who exactly is driving our foreign policy? It’s a fair question to ask, with President Ted Kennedy’s latest health scare giving him a week in Walter Reed Hospital. So far, Kennedy has focused primarily on domestic issues, passing an extensive healthcare bill and capping a midterm campaign with a breakthrough on immigration reform. But in the past 6 months, foreign crises have increasingly drawn his energy, whether in Darfur, the Caucasus, or the Levant, and above all, in these last two years of his first term—yes, he still intends to run for re-election—Kennedy will face the daunting prospect of winding down an ongoing war.
Yet the president seems entirely aloof, even absent, from the most important discussions taking place in the White House over how to manage the war. After the conflict in Lebanon last year, the potential for greater crises in the Middle East is high, and the risk of American troops being drawn in to a wider conflict is real. They’re already fighting in the region as is. Withdrawal plans have been scuttled, and the White House’s proposed exit timeline is fuzzy. But when Kennedy was asked about the war two weeks ago, he reiterated his campaign pledge to get “every American troop out.”
So which is it? The answer may lie in Kennedy’s top advisors. Eager to avoid the obvious comparisons to another President Kennedy’s “Best and Brightest” managing a war, these figures apparently are called “The Inner Circle” on the Washington cocktail circuit. Others prefer the term “Shadow Cabinet.” Much more innocuous.
A few of these top figures are not quite hiding in the shadows, but in fact have been publicly appointed by the president to fill vacant roles in the past 3 months. Wesley Clark earned widespread praise when he was selected to head the Defense Department, and everyone within a 100 mile radius of DC knows somebody who’s insisted to them that Richard Holbrooke’s childhood dream is to be Secretary of State. Others, however, have roles largely unknown to the public. Former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright is a frequent advisor, as is former Secretary of Defense William Perry.
Perhaps it’s terribly unremarkable that two top members of the last Democratic administration are advising the current Democratic administration, but senior officials tell me that Kennedy has relied on those two more than many inside the White House to direct foreign policy. Word is that his National Security Advisor hasn’t spoken to the president since the Russo-Georgian crisis last December, and before that, he hadn’t had a meeting with Kennedy in 3 months.
Even Sandy Berger, former Deputy National Security Advisor and current probationer, has been a leading voice inside the Inner Circle.
What do all these lifetime members of the foreign policy establishment have in common? Well, they all served in the Clinton administration, but more than that, they all remain in very close contact with another Clinton. It’s no secret that the New York Senator from Arkansas has had her eye on the presidency for years, and that at the slightest sign of Kennedy’s health worsening, she is sure to lead the pack in any Democratic primaries that ensue. But according to senior officials, she already has a heavy hand inside the White House. Albright and Holbrooke reportedly talk to her “near-daily” and Secretary Clark meets with her “several times a week.”
For many inside the Inner Circle, their standing in the Kennedy White House gives them a chance to fight old wars, and perhaps wage new ones. Bill Clinton famously called his inaction during the Rwandan genocide the gravest mistake of his presidency, and his top advisors have spent years living that down. Memoirs about Bosnia, Rwanda, and the failure in Somalia abound. One figure inside the White House told me, “they’re all about settling old scores from the Clinton years.”
So perhaps the best route in determining President Kennedy’s foreign policy strategy would be to ask what Hillary Clinton’s foreign policy strategy is. With withdrawal plans dashed, and calls for escalation growing, can we be sure that this Inner Circle will keep President Kennedy away from ramping up the war? Or will Hillary Clinton and her Shadow Cabinet be too eager to write their next memoirs?
2007 The Washington Post
Transcript for the Alex Jones Show, October 2, 2008
Star Wars Imperial March plays
ANNOUNCER: Big Brother. Mainstream media. Government cover-ups. You want answers? Well, so does he. He’s Alex Jones, simulcast for the first time on both InfoWars Dot Com and on the SiriusXM Satellite Radio Network. Now, live from Allen, Texas, it’s Alex Jones.
JONES: Welcome ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this October 2nd show, going out across the country and worldwide. We have an exciting program for you today. Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura is going to be on our show later this hour to talk about a new TV show he’s working on. Very exciting to see this show, which he’ll tell you more about, got greenlit in part due to all your vocal support online.
Then, a few hours later today, we have another huge guest, a real patriot who you might remember from this year’s Republican Party primaries, here for his maiden voyage. That’s all very exciting and coming up in a few hours so be sure to stay tuned in. He’ll have an announcement about his political future and that of the country that will shock you. More on that later.
In the meantime, I want to cover the financial and political developments and I want to give listeners a chance to express their own frustrations on the propaganda, the different kinds of propaganda being forced down our throats by the controlled corporate media. It’s all many heads of the same monster.
I again watched television for about 45 minutes this morning during my workout. I like to maintain my physique, not unlike a certain washed-up governor in that way. Now, mostly I get my news, like most of you, through clips online uploaded to YouTube. I don’t really watch news itself from show to show, from program to program. Forcing yourself to listen to the same few voices on the Globalist News Network for hours on end is the quickest way to get hypnotized. Still, because of all of the craziness going on, I want to know what the enemy is saying and so I’m tuning in.
Let me tell you, it’s just un-be-lievable what they’re up to. The lying, the twisting, the spinning… The terrorizing the public. Blaming the public for the 1.7 trillion stock market loss that we witnessed when the “bailout failed on Monday.” They’re going to force through another bail-out again today as the stock market loses another couple hundred points, erasing the few gains made yesterday. Oh, and we’ll probably get another press conference from the Woman Killer’s vice president about how continuing sectarian violence means he needs to delay the timetable for withdrawal from Iraq because yada yada yada.
This is just typical. You’ll all remember I wasn’t the biggest fan of Bush or Kennedy in ‘04 but, with Kennedy, I figured, “what do we have to lose?” This was a guy who had been part of a rotten system for decades but he’d seen his brothers get killed by You Know Who. Whole family massacred by Bush’s daddy. I thought, you know, he’ll probably lie. He’ll probably steal, but at the very least he’ll be anti-CIA, anti-Them. He’ll do some purges and get us out of the wars before he goes back to Massachusetts with some bags of cash.
(Pause)
JONES: Boy, was I wrong. What’s the first thing he does? National Unity Cabinet. This guy talks like he’s Lincoln or something and then immediately throws together the worst people you’ve ever seen! I mean, these are real DC swamp creatures and geriatrics. He kept Powell in there. Armitage. We got the Clinton hanger-ons with Albright at State and Holbrooke as the “war czar.” Christ, even Shultz is back—as if the swamp monster didn’t do enough damage in the 80s!
And what happened? (Yelling) What did I say would happen when he first announced this stuff? We got deeper in. These so-called experts on insurgencies have one response to everything and it’s “troop surge.” They’re all happy to send off your sons and daughters to die, or to authorize another CIA operation that makes everything worse, because they know they won’t be paying the cost. “Oh, we need to stabilize the situation before we leave so no one fills the vacuum.” Give me a break. They’ll let you pick up the bill and, oh, as a token of appreciation here’s your watered down “KennedyCare.” Couldn’t even force through his communist public option bullshit.
Speaking of the big man up top, They sure got rid of him quick, didn’t they? Two years of him talking and doing his “deal-maker” schtick and now he’s completely gone. It’s their pliable puppet Barnes on TV now. No one in the media has the guts to say it, but Kennedy’s probably dying in some secret underground hospital underneath the Mall because They injected cancer into his brain. It was probably after he tried declassifying all those documents on his brothers—which were all fake by the way.
But he’s trudging along into November. Trudging. Trudging. All those whispers on the Democrat side about “a new generation of leadership” never really amounted to anything and so we got the corporate media practically wheeling the guy out on a stretcher at the convention stage. Four more years? Give me a break. Four more minutes, maybe.
I can’t say I like the Republicans much either this year. I might just stay home after the globalist hegemonists stole the nomination from Paul so they could get another Bush / Cheney ticket to “finish the job.” If the polls are to be believed—which they’re not—the whole contest is neck and neck because people feel just so dismal about both parties. Someone could really use that to build a third way if they wanted but, heh, more on that later.
I will say one thing I do like about the Republicans this year. I like how honest they’re being this year. No more of this “compassionate conservatism” garbage or “family values” campaigning. I don’t know what’s gotten into the guy but the new George Bush is mean. He’s aggressive. He’s not afraid to call Democrats what they are and the whole party is following suit. If this is the End of Days like it seems, at least people are going down swinging.
That’s probably a good time for a commercial break. I’ll say up top that tickets for the Info Wars “End of the Party” Tour are sold out in most locations, but you can check all availability on our website. In the meanwhile, I want to talk to you about non-fluoridated water…
SCOTUSblog: Walker v. Ohio
Briefly mentioned: The court is expected to release orders from conference at 9:30 a.m. There is a possibility of opinions at 10:00 a.m. Physical access around the building will be tightly controlled by police. We will be liveblogging starting at 9:25 a.m. at this link, where you can sign up for an email reminder for when live blog begins.
Docket No. Op. Below Argument Opinion Vote Author Term
16-6762 Ohio Dec 11, 2016 TBD TBD TBD OT 2016
Issue: Whether the State of Ohio’s participation in the National Popular Vote Interstate Compact, which awards the state’s electoral vote to the presidential ticket that wins the national popular vote, is unconstitutional because it constitutes an interstate compact enacted without Congressional consent.
SCOTUSblog Coverage
A history of popular vote, electoral vote splits: 1876, 1888, 2000, 2004, 2012, and 2016 (John Ray)
Argument analysis: In a close case, concerns about chaos and “undermining Court legitimacy” (Lauren Stubbs)
Educational seminar: Relevance of faithless elector cases (Lauren Stubbs)
Symposium: To Act or Not to Act: Lessons from Bush v. Gore (Paul Lundman)
Symposium: Undoing compact could throw 2016 election into chaos (Paul Daniels and Sampriti Roxana)
Symposium: Candidate Scott Walker’s curious constitutionalism goes before the court (Paul Lundman)
Symposium: Why states are the best judges when allocating their votes (John Ray)
Symposium: The danger of letting states disregard their voters’ wishes; the role of Congress (David Green)
Symposium: Constitutional doctrine and political reality around contested elections (John Ray)
Symposium: Scalia’s legacy, an empty seat, and the dangers of a split decision (Paul Lundman)
Symposium: Court decisions in times of national unrest: Civil War to Present (John Ray)
George W. Bush has reached an agreement on the sale of the Texas Rangers
SB Nation
December 12, 2013
The Texas Rangers are one step closer to having new owners.
On Friday afternoon, the organization and a group of potential buyers led by Bakr Binladin announced that they have entered into a purchase and sale agreement. The potential new ownership group is led by Binladin, the largest stakeholder of Saudi Binladin Group, a large Middle Eastern construction conglomerate heavily involved in the construction of sports stadiums in the region.
Notable members of the potential new ownership group, making up small shares, are Owen Wilson and Dirk Nowitski. Speaking on behalf of the group, Binladin released a statement on Friday.
“We are excited to expand our operations into new fields and, indeed, a new continent. We would like to thank Mr. Bush, whose family we have long known and trusted, for facilitating this process. Our family has long had a special connection with Texas and its people, and we hope that this new acquisition will serve to further establish ourselves in America’s greatest and most strategically important state. Our gratitude goes out to the MLB family, and we are dedicated to bringing championship-caliber teams for years to come.”
Bush, the current franchise owner, has been uncharacteristically silent since the sale. Bush has had a long and turbulent history with the Rangers franchise, first buying it in 1989 only to sell it in 1994 after his election as Texas Governor. This second chapter in his Rangers saga began only a few years ago, in 2010, when Bush emerged as the surprise victor in a bidding war over the ownership of the franchise. It was an unexpected return for the former president, who had kept a low public profile following a devastating loss to Edward Kenendy in the 2004 election. He took to his new role with gusto, however, quickly becoming known as one of the most active owners in baseball. After years in the doldrums, the flashy change was met with hope and optimism from Rangers fans around the country.
His honeymoon, however, would prove to be short. The Rangers’ 2011 season would immediately be characterized by high coaching turnover, with a near-unprecedented three managers leading the club at some point in the year. This already provided easy fodder for late-night comedians and baseball writers, who quickly drew comparisons to his ill-fated term as president. The next year, in 2012, things would only get worse. The Rangers would receive international notoriety following an incident where Bush fired his club’s manager mid-game and went on the field to manage the team himself, only to lose in a blowout. These events would be referenced every time that the club struck out on a high-profile free agent, leading him to receive blame for all of the club’s woes.
Of course, there are some who insist that the game was rigged from the start. As one of the most right-wing presidents in the country’s history, practically everything Bush has done since his election in 2000 has been viewed through the lens of politics. His second ownership of the Rangers has been no exception. Every winter for the past few seasons, talk radio has been ablaze with accusations that the baseball world was collectively refusing to sign with Bush so they could make him look like a loser. While none outside these circles have gone as far as to claim an anti-conservative conspiracy, others do agree with the idea that the baggage surrounding Bush has turned players off.
How true is this? Most current and former Rangers players declined to comment, but the ones who did described something different from the common theories. Speaking anonymously, one player, who was on the team during the 2011 season, said that few gave notice to Bush’s notoriety: in his words, he was “far from the only big-shot owner in baseball.” Instead, what truly doomed Bush’s ownership was the attitude that he took towards the team: a constant posture of “preening desperation” that made players feel generally uncomfortable. Also speaking off the record, another player from the Rangers’ second Bush era summed up how his teammates felt:
“Seeing him every day, it felt off. It was just, like, what the fuck? Why are you fuckin’ here, man? You're so old. Where’s your wife? Go home to your family, dude."
Saudi cleric declares fatwa against Iran
guardian.co.uk
Fri 11 May 2007 21.39 est
In a radio recording heard yesterday by western reporters, Usama bin Ladin, head of the obscure terrorist group Al-Qaida, declared a “jihad” against the Iranian government. This comes a week after two car bombings in the Iranian city Mashhad left 11 killed, and as many as three dozen wounded. The Al-Qaida leader did not declare responsibility for the attacks, but warned that if the Iranian government did not end their support for militants along the Afghan border, they would “invite disaster.”
With the Afghan Civil War entering its fourth year, the refugee crisis has destabilized Central Asia, and foreign intervention has led to a bloody stalemate. Estimates of the dead range as high as 150,000, with the majority being civilians. The Northern Alliance, a group fighting the Taliban, has lobbied for increased Western assistance, including TOW missiles and other heavy weaponry. A U.S. State Department spokesman told The Guardian that they remain committed to a “swift transition away from the Taliban,” although did not provide comments on how the U.S. will implement that.
Al-Qaida’s camps in Afghanistan were emptied in 2005, following bin Ladin’s exit from the country. The Taliban fell out with the terrorist group over unclear circumstances, although some experts suggest it was an attempt to curry favor with foreign powers. The Russian government insists that decision had no impact on their renewed efforts in peace talks to resolve the conflict, although a Kremlin spokesman conceded, “it is better to have them removed than to have them there.”
Bin Ladin is widely believed to have been behind the USS Cole bombing in 2000, which took the lives of 17 American sailors in Yemen, as well as the East Africa embassy attacks of 1998, with a death toll reaching into the hundreds. Experts disagree on where exactly bin Ladin is, with some suggesting he returned to his previous stomping grounds in Sudan, or perhaps stayed inside Afghanistan protected by local militants, or even that he fled to Pakistan. The U.S. government remains tightlipped about his whereabouts. One anonymous U.S. intelligence official even remarked “you can make the case that it’s preferable to have him alive.” When pressed for further details, the same source insisted that the U.S. government remains committed to “delivering the terrorist to justice,” but that there are other more pressing priorities.
This has fueled speculation among some retired intelligence officials that bin Ladin is being used again—perhaps by the Pakistani government in conjunction with his old Saudi sponsors—as he was in the Afghan jihad of the 1980’s. In that war against the Soviet Union, the American Central Intelligence Agency spent billions to arm and equip the mujahideen. Bin Ladin comes from a wealthy Saudi family, and was one of many “Afghan Arabs,” who journeyed to Afghanistan with dreams of holy war against atheistic invaders. Now, some suggest he is carrying out that same mission against Iran.
Regional experts agree that the Middle East is fast moving towards an “inflection point,” with both Saudi and Iranian governments viewing the other’s movements through the lens of a Sunni-Shia civil war. Both governments have long been accused of providing aid to extremist groups. This comes at a time when tensions between the U.S. and Iran are at their highest in nearly thirty years, with a suspected Iranian nuclear program being the subject of the Bush administration’s ire. “We can’t afford to let the smoking gun be a mushroom cloud,” one senior official told The Guardian.
“But we have other ways of preventing them from reaching that point.”
Tags: Iran, Middle East, Afghanistan
ThinkProgress: Group Responsible For DC Attack Will “Face Full Force of American Justice”
Jonathan Michaels
April 15, 2017 10:40 PM
President Romney pledged that the American government would find out who set off the “dirty bomb” on the DC National Mall on Saturday morning and “not rest until justice is served.”
Standing in front of Independence Hall in Philadelphia with a collection of congressional leaders just hours after the explosive device released radioactive material across downtown Washington, Romney delivered an aggressive and, at times, emotional address. The president was careful not to name a culprit but stressed:
“Our military, intelligence, and law enforcement agencies will not rest until justice is served. We will pursue you relentlessly and without mercy. There is no base remote enough, no bunker deep enough, to save you. When we find you, you will face the full force of American justice. Your destruction will serve as a symbol of how brightly the Torch of Liberty can burn.”
The president then went on to add that, “On days such as these, there is no Red America or Blue America. We are all citizens united in pursuit of the common good.” He then led the assembled members of Congress in singing the National Anthem before departing.
Update:
On Twitter, Secretary of Defense Clinton confirmed that all Executive Branch offices would temporarily relocate to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania “for the duration” of the reconstruction and decontamination effort. The Administration’s announcement follows a similar announcement from Speaker of the House Amash.
#Mitt Romney, #Politics, #Terrorism, #Nuclear Weapons`) e.executable.push([2, (() => {e.image = e.image = 'https://i.imgur.com/8LCwRQL.png'})]) } else if ( quickstats[0] >= 270 && (e.player_answers.includes(11254) || e.player_answers.includes(10328))) { // Bush gets sent 2 girls 1 cup e.pages.push(`
Subject: Security Breach and Policy Update
To: White House Staff
From: Karl Rove, Deputy Chief of Staff
Date: December 17, 2005
Dear Colleagues,
As you may have heard, the President's personal email account was compromised by a group of hackers who call themselves “Goons”. They sent him a malicious link that redirected him to a highly disturbing and obscene video involving two women and a cup. The President was shocked and disgusted by what he saw, and immediately closed the browser window.
We are working with the Secret Service and the FBI to track down the perpetrators and bring them to justice. We are also taking steps to enhance the security of the President's email and other online accounts. We urge you to be vigilant and report any suspicious activity or messages to the IT department.
In light of this incident, the President has decided to make internet decency a priority for the next quarter. He believes that protecting our children and families from the harmful and offensive content that is rampant on the web is a high priority for our second administration.
Therefore, he will be proposing a new legislation that will require internet service providers to filter and block any material that is deemed obscene, violent, or hateful by a federal agency. He will also be launching a public awareness campaign to educate parents and children about the dangers of the internet and how to use it safely and responsibly.
We hope that you will support the President's initiative and help him make the internet a safer and cleaner place for all Americans.
Sincerely,
Karl Rove
Deputy Chief of Staff
READ-OUTS ON THE PASSING OF PRES. MCCAIN • 23 NOVEMBER 2017
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
STATEMENT FROM PRESIDENT BILL CLINTON AND SECRETARY HILLARY CLINTON
NEW YORK, NEW YORK—President John McCain was a dedicated fighter who took on the political establishment and advanced American liberty around the globe.
Throughout his long, remarkable life, he served as an unwavering advocate for pragmatic, sensible politics. As America’s first politically unaffiliated president since Washington, McCain sought to reach across the aisle and bring Americans together. His leadership helped shepherd immigration reform, protections for those in homosexual unions, and improvements to veterans’ health care. We also deeply respect his embrace of robust, multilateral diplomacy that has liberated countless people from despotism and tyranny.
He will be forever remembered as the embodiment of a life lived with purpose. Both of us are deeply grateful for his extraordinary service and saddened by his passing in office. We extend our prayers to his family, First Lady Cindy McCain and his children Doug, Andy, Sidney, Jimmy, Doug, Bridget, and Meghan.
STATEMENT FROM PRESIDENT GEORGE H.W. BUSH AND FIRST LADY BARBARA BUSH
HOUSTON, TEXAS—President McCain was many things—a patriot, a maverick, and a warrior.
Throughout his career, John distinguished himself as a leader of the greatest magnitude and a public servant of the rarest courage. Few people have sacrificed more for, or contributed to, the welfare of his fellow citizens and all freedom-loving people of the world. His departure from the Republican Party did not diminish our tremendous respect for the man. We enjoyed our calls throughout his presidency and hope we were some source of knowledge and comfort, despite our occasional disagreements.
While President McCain’s ill health had been well-known for some time, his passing is nonetheless a blow to all Americans who saw in him the promise and possibility that this country can offer. In these difficult times, we remember his words, “No one of good character leaves behind a wasted life — whether they die in obscurity or renown.”
He is a hero and he will be missed.
STATEMENT FROM PRESIDENT JOSEPH LIEBERMAN AND HADASSAH LIEBERMAN
HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT—Today, America has lost a great hero and we have lost a wonderful friend. Words cannot express the depths of our sorrow. No praise for John is enough.
We urge Americans to honor John’s memory by uniting behind the new president and recommitting towards acts of service to each other. The best celebration of his life and memory is by demonstrating empathy and understanding toward our fellow man.
STATEMENT FROM PRESIDENT AND MRS. GEORGE W BUSH ON PRESIDENT JOHN MCCAIN
CRAWFORD, TEXAS—We acknowledge the passing of President John McCain. He was a significant figure who inspired many feelings. Despite our differences on policy and politics, we recognize his unique place in American history. He leaves behind an unfinished legacy. We wish the best to President Bayh’s family as he seeks to continue it.
Broadway World Dot Com: AMERICAN PSYCHO! on Broadway - A Complete Guide
Broadway World Dot Com: AMERICAN PSYCHO! on Broadway - A Complete Guide
Get all the details you need about the show making a killing on Broadway
Looking for information about one of the hottest shows on Broadway? BroadwayWorld has the scoop on all you need to know about Patrick Bateman’s Broadway killing spree. Details below!
Where is AMERICAN PSYCHO! playing on Broadway?
AMERICAN PSYCHO! is running on Broadway at the Winter Garden Theatre. The Winter Garden Theatre is a Broadway theater at 1634 Broadway in the Theatre District of Midtown Manhattan in New York City.
How do I get to AMERICAN PSYCHO! on Broadway?
To arrive by subway, take the 1 to 50th Street or the N, R, or W to 49th Street. The Winter Garden Theatre is on Broadway between 50th and 51st Streets.
When did AMERICAN PSYCHO! open on Broadway?
AMERICAN PSYCHO! began previews on October 18, 2011 and opened on November 14, 2011, then-starring Josh Groban as Patrick Bateman, Andrew Rannells as Paul Owen / Detective Kimball, and Britney Spears as Courtney / Jean. It received mostly positive reviews on first opening, with many praising the cast and politically conscious script. The New York Times praised it in its review “Age of Avarice,” which characterized its satire of America’s “corrupt, business-obsessed culture of excess” as “a breath of fresh air.”
Is AMERICAN PSYCHO! playing outside of New York City?
Yes! AMERICAN PSYCHO! is currently touring the US and has productions running in the West End, China, and Korea. Touring productions are currently running in Australia and Germany with a Middle Eastern debut planned to debut in Abu Dhabi later this year (with mild alterations to accommodate censorship).
What is AMERICAN PSYCHO! based on?
AMERICAN PSYCHO! is very loosely based on the controversial 1991 novel American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis and the 2000 film of the same name starring Christian Bale.
What is AMERICAN PSYCHO! about?
Set in Wall Street during the investment boom of the 1980s, AMERICAN PSYCHO! depicts the daily life and struggles of a young investment banker named Patrick Bateman. While Patrick masks himself as a suave and compassionate “problem solver” by day, he spends his nights consumed by feelings of inadequacy, rage, anxiety, and bloodlust. Through his rampage through the shallow and superficial world of Manhattan, the audience learns about Patrick’s feelings of contempt toward a distant and disapproving father, his antipathy toward the corporate “yuppies” who will never accept him, and his deep-seated hatred toward women and minorities. The more he succeeds, the more empty he feels.
The bitingly satirical production won 8 Tony Awards and a Grammy. It features a book by Dave Malloy and music and lyrics by Duncan Sheik and Trent Reznor.
What are some of the popular songs in AMERICAN PSYCHO?
AMERICAN PSYCHO features a number of Billboard-charting songs by its award-winning cast. These songs, which range from pop to 80s-inspired synth beats, include “Cards,” “Idea of Me,” “Because I Love You,” “Lethal,” and “No Exit.” It also features covers of “Hip to Be Square” and “In the Air Tonight.”
What’s this I hear about a movie?
Owing to its international success, AMERICAN PSYCHO is heading toward the big screen next summer with a cast that includes Ansel Elgort, Armie Hammer, and Katerina McCrimmon. First-time director Hugh Jackman hopes that the film will bring AMERICAN PSYCHO to a new audience while preserving the “anti-greed message that audiences everywhere have come to love.”
It has been rated PG-13.
Royal wins French presidential election
Le Monde with AP and AFP
6 May 2007
Ségolène Royal, candidate of the Socialist Party, was elected president of France on Sunday, May 6th, with 61% of the vote compared to 39% for her rival, Jean-Marie Le Pen. Ms. Royal’s victory makes her France’s first female president and its first socialist leader since François Mitterrand.
Royal’s ascension is a triumphless victory for her and her party, expected by all and celebrated by few. Indeed, most attention during the campaign has gone to her opponent, Mr. Le Pen, made internationally infamous in his ascension to the second round of the 2002 election. In that race, the mere shock of Mr. Le Pen’s narrow second-place victory in the first round was considered a national disgrace. This time, a repeat second-round ascension was considered guaranteed for the past year. The only question was how far he could go in the runoff. The answer, it seems, was quite far indeed.
While Mr. Le Pen did not quite meet the numbers some late surveys predicted he would — with most ballots counted, he seems set to fall just short of the 40% mark — his total represents a massive shift in French politics since 2002. Back then, all of French society united around President Jacques Chiraq in a bid to keep Le Pen’s numbers as low as possible. Now, many of these same institutions worked to unite around Ms. Royal, with considerably less success.
Mr. Le Pen has more than doubled his vote share from five years ago, winning several departments in the northeast and south of the country. He saw particular strength in areas most affected by the ongoing global market crash, although failed to meet expectations in places most affected by the Middle Eastern migrant crisis. Ms. Royal, by contrast, saw considerable success in France’s cities and traditionally left wing southwest. Her numbers were weaker than expected in the northwest, where conservative voters either abstained or backed the far-right Le Pen.
Ms. Royal will enter office with economic trouble and record-high migrant inflows at the top of her agenda. Despite repeated calls on her part for a governing “alliance of the republic,” center-right leaders have stuck to the hardline rhetoric that characterized their campaigns. Much of her success will be dependent on the results in this June’s parliamentary elections. Currently, Ms. Royal’s Socialist Party is polling at 20%, in comparison to 26% for Mr. Le Pen’s National Front.
Soon after the polls closed, a pallid Ms. Royal gave a victory speech at a party gathering that resembled a funeral more than it did a celebration. After thanking the French people for their trust in her, she declared that she “heard their voice” and would work tirelessly to “bring the republic together.” Nearby in Paris, a jubilant Mr. Le Pen, flanked by his daughter, Marine, declared that “this is really just the beginning.”
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IMDb: Vice
2018 • R • 3h 18m
[Biography], [Political], [Drama]
When Dick Cheney, an unassuming Washington bureaucrat, assumes the Vice Presidency, his unbridled ambition and desire to reshape the international scene triggers a spiral of violence… [Read all]
⭐6.7/10 154k
Nominated for 4 Oscars
Top Cast
Christian Bale (Dick Cheney)
Matthew McConaughey (George W. Bush)
Lorraine Toussaint (Condoleezza Rice)
Denzel Washington (Colin Powell)
Ethan Hawke (Bill Frist)
Steve Carrell (Donald Rumsfield)
Lynne Cheney (Angelina Jolie)
Director Ridley Scott
Writers Martin McDonagh >
All Cast and Crew >
Production, box office, & more at IMDbPro
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Storyline
Governor George W. Bush of Texas picks Dick Cheney, the CEO of Halliburton Company and former White House Chief of Staff, to be his running mate in the 2000 presidential election. Following Bush’s unexpected election, Cheney remakes American foreign policy in his image, instigating bloody and vicious war that nearly unravels the Republican Party, triggers a spiral of betrayal, and forces an incompetent, indecisive president to the brink of annihilation. In the face of overwhelming odds, it will take a handful of the president’s advisors to stop Dick and save America before it’s too late.
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Taglines Everything is under control.
Captain Planet (2006) - Nostalgia Critic
(09/21/2008)
Hello, I’m the Nostalgia Critic. I remember it so you don’t have to. Now, this may be a bit sudden, but I want to shoot Ted Turner. I don’t know if you remember the original Captain Planet, but the only other thing on at the time was… Beakman’s World. Our options were limited. But this show was awful, and I mean AWFUL. Nobody liked it, nobody cared about it, but the thing went on for four seasons, which by kid’s show standards is the average runtime of an episode of How I Met Your Mother. The point is, the fine people at CNN decided two years ago to reboot this show and expose another generation of young impressionable minds to the most boring crack trip they’ve ever seen.
So, who do we have to blame for this environmental pigshit? The President of the United States. That’s right, Al Gore himself. He’s even listed in the credits as the Executive Producer. Sorry to disappoint the bearded ones out there, but I never cared much for politics and I won’t bore you with how exactly this came to be, but the gist of it is that some executive funds were freed up out of the Interior Department’s budget and they decided to run to… CNN to get a reboot of Captain Planet. Can you believe nobody cares about politics?
The Captain Planet for the next generation aims to capture the Teen Titans crowd of older kids, sporting a new, grungier design and aged up Planeteers. Don’t worry, though, they kept it diverse. Featuring an array of voice actors such as… Tim Curry? Felicity Huffman!? How the fuck did they get Felicity Huffman? Did she owe them a few mil or something? This makes no sense. Anyway, the series somehow manages to get darker than the AIDS plotline by including some stories about drug addiction, abuse… Pretty much anything so long as they throw in an environmental message halfway through. I guess kids get bored of trees when they turn 12. Now for those of you who don’t know the infamous story of Captain Planet, consider yourselves very fortunate. But hell, I’m gonna let LeVar Burton tell you, anyway.
Following the Crumbs Third Edition [1:18:34] | YouTube
Jan 13, 2007
On January 14th, 2002, the President of the United States lost consciousness. Crashing to the ground, the Commander-in-Chief was wounded, slashing open his lower lip and bruising his cheek. He was not shot, stabbed, or meeting with Monica in the Oval Office. As the official story goes, President George Bush was watching Sunday football on TV, and choked on a pretzel, momentarily fainting.
But what is the likelihood of a single pretzel making it through all of a man’s internal defenses, only to freeze up halfway through the esophagus? If he had choked on a pretzel, why was no evidence of the bag presented to investigators? What about reports of an unidentified “pod” attached to the pretzel? Was the attack on George Bush an inside job, an attempt to take out the commander-in-chief? What really happened that day?
According to one decorated and highly experienced pretzel expert, the possibility of one fragment forcing a man to lose consciousness and injure himself is “close to zero.” The pretzel had no professional training or experience in choking. Reports on the scene indicate that Bush told his wife that the pretzel “didn’t seem to go down right,” and he was then sprawled on the floor. So what made that pretzel different?
If the president had lost consciousness for good, the man who had the most to benefit would be Bush’s second-in-command: Dick Cheney. Serving a thankless role, Cheney despised sucking up to someone he regarded as an incompetent Texas cowboy. Cheney wanted the top spot, with one close aide saying “he would kill for it.” On January 14th, he may have just tried.
Two days before 1/14, an “unprecedentedly high” number of short stocks were taken out on pretzel companies. Who could have known in advance that pretzel stocks would plummet? But according to the commission report, there was nothing suspicious.
Witnesses reported disturbing and unexplained phenomena before the president was chewing on the alleged “pretzel” while watching football. Some even claim to have heard “weird sounds” 30 minutes before the bag was opened. Was the pretzel planted in advance? Did some device activate the object trapped in the president’s throat, timed to coincide with when he began eating his snacks? According to the Association of Experts for Pretzel Truth, the “pod” identified by witnesses on the pretzel are consistent with a controlled choking.
The pretzel was the perfect patsy, rigged to blow by a conspiracy planned well in advance, with the victors ready to reap the rewards. Or maybe, the official story is right, and the president just ate a pretzel and choked on it. You decide. Wake up.
Electra Heart for Amerika Tour Announcement
http://www.marinaandthediamonds.com/
You knew her as a Homewrecker and a Bubblegum Bitch, but now this Teen Idle is back from the Living Dead to take Amerika by storm. This time, she’s running for president.
Join Electra Heart (Marina Diamandis) on July 4th in Washington, DC as she launches her new album, Electra Heart for Amerika, and starts her North America tour with running mate and opener Lana del Rey.
With stops in Washington, Philadelphia, New York, Chicago, Minneapolis, Nashville, Houston, Phoenix, Denver, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Seattle, Electra will be reaching out to Primadonnas from all walks of life to get their votes for the most important election of our lifetime. It’s not just about escaping the Valley of the Dolls, it’s about bringing down the men who only care about them when it means Power & Control.
Ticket-holders for the July 4th launch event will be the first to hear the entirety of Electra Heart for Amerika, a new 22-track album covering the empty consumerism and “disposable women” of America, from Marilyn Monroe to Mary Jo Kopechne to Monica Lewinsky.
Head to YouTube to listen to the title track Electra Heart for Amerika and chart-topping singles Double Life and Archetype.
Visit Ticketmaster to book your ticket today. Your future depends on it, Amerika.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Hillary Clinton plays on the nostalgia of her husband’s presidency in hopes of becoming the nation’s first female president.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Al Gore returns to rematch Bush following a sobering loss at the hands of the Supreme Court 4 years ago.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while John Edwards characterizes the administration as out of touch with the American working class in a populist turn from the previous Democratic ticket.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Paul Wellstone crashes onto the national scene to rekindle the flame of liberalism in the Democratic Party to stand toe to toe with a wartime president.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Joseph Lieberman rematches with Bush following their clash 4 years ago to explain why he provides a more sensible path forward for the nation.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Al Shartpon comes off of a losing streak to make his case that the Bush administration can’t be trusted to handle the problems of domestic America.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Edward Kennedy invokes his brothers’ legacies in a vindictive run for the past of the Democratic Party.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Hillary Clinton plays on the nostalgia of her husband’s presidency in hopes of becoming the nation’s first female president.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Al Gore returns to rematch Bush following a sobering loss at the hands of the Supreme Court 4 years ago.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while John Edwards characterizes the administration as out of touch with the American working class in a populist turn from the previous Democratic ticket.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Paul Wellstone crashes onto the national scene to rekindle the flame of liberalism in the Democratic Party to stand toe to toe with a wartime president.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Joseph Lieberman rematches with Bush following their clash 4 years ago to explain why he provides a more sensible path forward for the nation.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Al Shartpon comes off of a losing streak to make his case that the Bush administration can’t be trusted to handle the problems of domestic America.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.
American History USA
THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL
Please select the election you will run in: 
George W. Bush attempts to reunite his party following a troublesome first term, while Edward Kennedy invokes his brothers’ legacies in a vindictive run for the past of the Democratic Party.
Bush's scandals between missing Pentagon funds, the bankruptcy of Enron, and personal tensions between him and vice president Cheney take the forefront of the election all the while tensions across the world crescendo upon the unpopular president.