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ANTI-DOPING FOR BUSH
BY PETER KURTH (published 08.09.06)
A couple of years ago, when the state of the world seemed a little
less bleak than it does now – a little, mind you, not a lot – a
reader wrote in to say that he was tired of my “constant rants about
Dubya” and wondered if I could “ever write an entire column
without once mentioning the name George W. Bush.”
The answer is no. As you can see from the above sentence,
it’s impossible. But I do get
asked that question a lot. Even the
so-called Bush-haters are tired of hearing about him. “Oh, fercrissake, Pete!” they
complain. “Can’t you
write something – anything! -- that isn’t about that wet-brain
in the White House?” And the
people who still adore Bush are even more expressive, believe me: “You f—kin’
stinkin’ liberal queer – get over it! George Bush won the election fair and
square and he’s gonna be our Prezdint till every one of you filthy
homos dies from AIDS like you deserve!”
Ooo-la-la! The New York Times reports that in
Washington they’ve started serving French fries again in the
congressional cafeteria, the idea of “Freedom Fries,” after
five years, being a little too stupid for even Republicans to cling to.
Well, never mind. Whenever the
“Why-Don’t-You-Write-About-Something-Else?” question
raises its head, I do what every serious journalist does and try to please
the people. Over the past year,
I’ve written about topics as diverse as the James Frey
literary scandal, “The
Star-Spangled Banner,” the
plight of the Nukak Indians in Colombia,
and Angelina Jolie – but damned if they didn’t
all lead back to Bush, one way or another.
It just can’t be helped.
There’s absolutely nothing in national or world affairs that
Bush and his regime haven’t touched and, by touching, made worse.
I don’t know why this
should be, but I know it’s a fact.
And, far from pleasing the people, my feeble efforts to get off
Ding-Dong’s back seem only to inflame them further. My column about Angelina Jolie, for
example, in which I suggested that she be made Queen of America in the
absence of a functioning Bill of Rights, brought on more angry mail than
I’ve had since the lesbians called me “transphobic”
nearly a decade ago. My friend and
former college roommate, rock star James Velvet, tells me that this
is because writing about celebrities hits people “where they
live,” and I guess he’s right, because I got a similar wash of
impassioned emails when I once did a column about Renee Zellweger’s hair.
Just for the record – and I’m sure you’re dying to
know -- the Angelina Jolie brigades come in two warring camps. There’s the
“Brangelina” camp, which chastises me for “polluting the
internet" with sophomoric diatribes about people who do such wonderful
work for charity. According to them, I need to "get a life"
and a "golden heart." Then there’s the “Jennifer
Aniston” camp, which tells me I’m going to “rot in
hell” along with Brad and Angie, who “suck and are full of crap
and think that by trying to save the world they can justify what they did
to poor Jen. Jen doesn’t
deserve to be even one foot close to that scumbag [Brad] and that whore who
cannot keep her legs closed [Angie].”
Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because “we’re all
going to be beautiful in heaven,” except for “ignorant
mortals” like me “and most other celebrities/writers.” This, in fact, is the word of “God
Almightly.” (Yes, you read
that right:
“Almightly”).
Hmm. This problem of not
writing about Bush is becoming so serious that I actually consulted one of
my editors about it last week, who agrees that the world’s a mess on
account of Bush and his policies, but suggested that I write about
testosterone instead. She was
referring to the now blazing scandal surrounding Floyd Landis, who
“just two weeks ago,” according to wire reports, was
“glorified as the come-from-behind champion of the Tour de
France,” but now “faces perhaps the steepest climb of his
life” after an “anti-doping official” confirmed that he
had irregular testosterone levels in his blood and that this testosterone
was shown to be “synthetic” by “foolproof” tests.
Got that? I don’t. I don’t know anything about the Tour
de France except that it’s a bicycle race somewhere overseas -- France, maybe? -- that Lance Armstrong, a
testicular cancer survivor, has won it every year in human memory, and
that, like all professional sports, it goes on forever and you can never tell
what’s happening. I mean, in
the Tour de France, someone can be miles ahead of everyone else, pedaling
like mad up a mountain, and still not come in first. I don’t understand it, but my
editor’s point was clear.
“Since when has anyone gotten upset because some man had too
much testosterone in him?” she asked, with what I think was a touch
of sarcasm.
I had to think about this a bit, because I know some women -- mainly
in my family -- who’ve been very much upset by too much testosterone
in the atmosphere. But before I
could say anything, my editor said it herself: “Yeah,
testosterone. That all goes back to
Bush, too – Bush and Iraq and Hezbollah and Israel and wars and bombs going off. Just little boys with little
toys.” Then she sighed, with
what I think was … well, let’s call it “irony” this
time.
So, you see, there’s really no hope of my changing what I do
until Bush is out of office. As I
write this, we’re stuck with him for another 895 days, 22 hours, 33
minutes and 13 … 12 … 11 … seconds. “Get over it!” Now that we know there’s such a
thing as an “anti-doping official,” however, maybe he can go
work for Mel Gibson. Or at the White
House– take your pick.
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