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Hangout Review
Drugs are right on!; The Final Presidential Debate
At my apartment, just me and my cat.
October 13, 2004
The final debate drew to its bittersweet end, and my forty-ounce Colt 45 was two-thirds away. The candidates shook paws and then weirded-out one another’s daughters, the way only a ignominious dad can, while their wives fought through a frigid embrace. It was achingly American. The illusion of sanctity and goodwill. My malt liquor was getting warm.
Watching the wrap-up, I wondered why nobody was addressing the sheaf of frothy spittle that lurked in the right-hand corner of Bush’s mouth throughout the entire debate. This, in combination with the tendency of his right eyebrow make diving nudges into the center of his face, gave sufficient reason to believe that the president had perhaps reneged on his nearly twenty-year streak of abstinence from the evils of ungodly intoxication. Was, or was not, Bush back on coke (and why wasn’t he sharing)? Is it perhaps indicative of the effect that drugs tend to have on the cerebellum, that his facial tweaks were centered on the right side? The right side is controlled by the left half of the brain, the same half that is in control of the more linear-thinking processes. Perhaps Bush’s drug-addled semi-cognations were in silent rebellion against his pre-game stimulations. As he tried in his own brand of earnest to conjure up limp explanations laced with feeble riddles, the sufficiently wan mathematical half of his thinking was in it’s death throes; hence the twitching mug and arid saliva patch. As he had in years long gone, Bushy sought motivation and inspiration in cocaine, and got a bad case of the tweaks. In the post-game recap, Giuliani also looked a bit under the narcotic. Drowsy with bursts of mealy liveliness, he must have really hit the shit hard earlier in the day. With the elephants in position to stampede the countryside, ready-or-not, with zero regard for decency or fairness, two of it‘s kingpins got all fucked-up in that room at the back of the House. The one with the hippie-beads and mirror-top coffee table. Cheney is still back there, kicking his tasseled loafers from a full-fetal knot, battling the grips of some government-strain LSD. Would it have been entirely un-presidential of Kerry to sophomore a couple of Jaeger-Red-Bull boilermakers with Edwards before the bright lights torched his animatronic pallor? I’d have gladly ran for a quad of Sparks if those dudes were buying. Either of you fuckers got any papers?
So the last of my wretched sap was put away, and I let the magnum roll across the floor; the cat jumped out of it’s path.
Oh, how we are doomed. Why count the ways? Rome fell, and soon we too will be on our knees, sucking up in vain to the Chinese. I wish I knew some good Shakespeare to tie this one off, but I don’t. So I’ll go ahead and borrow from a modern poet. On the cover of this album, I’m Your Man, he’s munching a banana. Who says irony is dead. I’m talking about Leonard Cohen: Everybody knows the dice are loaded. Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed. Everybody knows the war is over. Everybody knows the good guys lost. Everybody knows the fight was fixed: the poor stay poor, the rich get rich. That’s how it goes. Everybody knows.
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