Brush

Bush clears brush. The picture published in the press recently of Bush clearing brush on his “ranch” in Crawford, Texas, is worth a thousand words. There he is grimacing at the camera with a stiff lower lip behind his designer sunglasses under his crispy white cowboy hat holding up a gnarled prairie log like he was pumping a hundred pounds of iron. What self-confidence he exudes, such masculine zeal, in his skillful mastery of that ancient ritual—picking up the yard. You can almost hear a nagging female voice in the background intoning, “George, when are you gonna pick up that stuff?” It's the kind of yard work many of his fellow Americans pay illegal immigrant to do. This snapshot of our hapless president is reminiscent of a home movie clip aired on television of a Bush family party when G.W. was a teenager in which he keeps running in front of the camera and vamping unabashedly like a toddler starved for attention. What a clown. Don’t you just love him? To death.