One of the best things about moving here is my discovery of Mark Morford. His hilarious writing is so complicated and bizarre that I often have to go back and read a paragraph again, laughing the whole time.
Here’s excerpts on his idea of Thanksgiving in the Bush White House:
Ah yes, it is that time again. The smell of roasting turkey and cigar smoke and Polo cologne, perfume like florid gasoline. Copious forced laughter that sounds like geese mating in a broom closet. It is Thanksgiving dinner at the Bush White House, where the guests mingle as though their genitals were being squeezed by manic elves, as if they were all coated in vanilla pudding being licked off by Pat Robertson. Which, truth be told, some of them seem to enjoy. A lot.
[...] George Sr. notices this, of course, from his usual place back beside the old bookcase that hasn’t been perused in five years, sips his gin fizz and chuckles softly at the scene, thinkin’ about golf, thinkin’ about how long ago it all seems since his reign of tepid ineptitude, but thinkin’, also, about how history will be much kinder to him now that his son has run the country into a blood-drenched wall. He-he-he. He’ll drink to that.
It’s the thing no one mentions, but which hangs over the room like a pall. Junior’s current miserable poll numbers now mean that he and his father share the honor of being two of the four most unpopular presidents in modern history, right alongside Carter and Nixon. But Bush 41 does not care. He gets to hang with Clinton now. He is grandfatherly and forgettable and almost invisible. In other words, his stature has improved considerably, in relation to his son. Damn this gin is good. Too bad Junior can’t have some. Looks like he could use it.
[...] Rove works the room, shakes hands, squeezing a little too hard to remind everyone who “the architect” really is. Everyone understands, even as they furtively wipe their hands on their pants after he touches them. Rove grabs fistfuls of baby shrimp and shoves them into his mouth when he thinks no one’s looking, swallows without chewing. He smells like baby aspirin and old bacon.
Karl sneaks furtive glances at Barb. He is awed by her natural power, her girth, her effortless cunning. That teal makes her look so … so … seaworthy. He wants her. Badly. She knows it. They have a secret thing — it is matronly and sweaty and creepy as hell and takes place every other Sunday in a Ritz-Carlton just off the Beltway.
[...] Condi is lonely. So, so lonely, sitting over in the far corner, all by herself, nursing her one glass of white wine. No one really talks to her anymore except Dubya and a maybe few brusque words from Rummy, who she suspects is always imagining her cleaning his guns and polishing his boots and calling him “master.” Suddenly, her heart jumps. She sees Dubya looking at her from across the room. She smiles that demonic, dominatrix-y smile that always creeps out the Asian press. He does that thing with his thin little lips, that little gesture only she understands. Her body is instantly warmed. Oh their special bond, a dark secret. It is her breath, her raison d’être. It keeps her alive.
[...] The banquet room reeks and coils and sighs. It is full of bleak energy and missed opportunities, spiritual paranoia and repressed desire and dishonest laughter. The turkey comes out dry. There is not enough pie for Dubya. Rumsfeld slurps his scotch, drunkenly. Dick eyes the dark thigh meat. Condi has to pee. There is little to be thankful for, inside this room.
Outside, however, among the nation’s awakening throngs, gratitude and hope are beginning to swell and grow anew. Only three years left. It’s long but not that long. Every person in that gloomy room will be gone. History. Nothing left but an ugly stain, oily residue, scar tissue. The room will be refreshed. The turkey will be moist. There will be more cranberry sauce. This dark, warmongering chapter will finally end. Pie all around.
It is not, the world realizes, too early to be thankful for that.