... months, but within this metaphorical construct.

We are all children in a car on a long trip.  George W. Bush is driving the family car, but even as children we know from his smirk and his transparent untrustworthiness that he is just following the directions of the stolid man in the passenger seat, "uncle" "dick" Cheney.

As the family car speeds down the highway, it passes scenes of carnage:  whole villages blown up, keening women, faces torn off corpses and smeared into lumps followed by long bloody streaks on the pavement -- hands, feet, arms, and torsos litter the highway.  Georgie keeps smirking and sticking a slightly gross hand  back between the seats and commanding, "Hey -- pull my finger!"  Dick is engrossed in what appears to be a deluxe GameBoy™.

"How much further?" the children manage to ask, just as Georgie swerves to avoid a woman (presumably) covered head-to-foot in a dark blanket who has staggered onto the US highway.  "How ... much ... further?" you ask, your voice falling as you turn your head and see the dark blanket and body fly into the air, hit by one of the large black SUV's following your family car.

"A Friedman," Cheney says, without looking up.  "We're almost there.  Just one more Friedman and I should have it all wrapped up."