I'm hiding in the bushes. I've had enough. I can't take it anymore. They pretend to understand me, but I know they are liars. Just like Him.
I'm on the run from rehab. The meds were okay but the food was crap. They said if I didn't behave I'd get a visit from the Secret Service for sure. I might end up in Gitmo they said if I didn't go along with the program.
When my daughter was a small child she had reoccurring dreams I was an alien from outer space. I know the fear she felt. Though everything tells you it was just a dream, a nightmare; something also tells you it was real and the dream was a trick.
You don't think they have implanted a subcutaneous GPS chip into my head do you? Some people think they have been abducted by aliens and others by the CIA. I submitted voluntarily. Still, with homeland spying in full monty; who knows what they are capable doing? If there is one thing I have learned in years of watching the powers-that-be it is this: Never underestimate a conspiracy of dunces.
I don't give a fuck about Cain and Abel; I just did it to lull them into thinking I was on the road to recovery.
I've got to get to a TV. They only allow one channel in rehab. ESPN2. It's rodeo cowboys, billiards and celebrity poker 24/7. I began to miss Wolf Blitzer. If I get just a glimpse of Him it will be enough to jumpstart my juices. The TV can't be turned to FOX News though. I would overdose in my delicate condition.
I'd pay a hundred dollars for a five second snip of Him saying, "We will stand down as the Iraqis stand up." Actually, just me saying it is almost enough; sense memory is strong medicine. But compared to real thing? It's like a joint of Oregano next to a pound of Maui Wowie.
I have been so out of touch, what is the newest outrage? Tell me, tell me. What has the goddamned, lying son-of-a-bitch done now? Did he spy on the Campfire Girls or the 4H Club? Has he taken bin Laden out of the deepfreeze yet and paraded the Osamasicle through the streets of New York? Has he released the tape of bin Laden saying to Saddam Hussein, "Thank you for the blowjob and the dirty bomb, Mr. President." Have we bombed Iran, Syria or Venezuela yet? Have we staged a coup in Bolivia or Paraguay?
I'm afraid to move. They've got searchlights roaming the grounds of the hospital. They must know I am gone by now. Even though I volunteered for rehab, I could tell that once they had me they didn't want to let me go.
I'd kill for a Bush victory speech right now.
It's not very noble lying here under the hedge like this. I am petrified to move. I don't want to get caught. I don't think I can survive withdrawal. It was a bad idea coming here. Maybe if the food was better and there was an open bar, and, you know, the nurses were like the ones in M.A.S.H...
I had a revelation while I was sitting in group therapy with some other addicts. I was the only George addict there; the others were into drugs, booze, porn and shopping. I could see they all felt sorry for me. They knew how hard my addiction was to break compared to theirs. Even the pedophile with the Brady Bunch fantasy felt sorry for me.
I don't feel sorry for myself, though. I don't find George the least bit debilitating; I find George liberating; empowering and, yes, intoxicating. He is my muse; my siren; my song. No, it is society that thinks I have a problem; not me.
Anyway I had this revelation. Some things are more important than sobriety. Peace of mind, for instance, and the pursuit of happiness.
I've got to make a break. I can't stay here lying under the hedge all night. Someone is sure to be along soon. If I could just get to that sidewalk over there and nonchalantly run a few miles in any direction away from here, I might have a chance.
It is amazing what we addicts will do for a fix. Lying here in the dirt, wearing a hospital gown and pair of red Fruit-of-the-Loom bikini briefs, waiting to make a dash, is almost normal. I guess I should have thought this through better. I didn't think through how I would appear to others as I ran through the streets like an escaped mental patient prattling endlessly on about the prince of darkness and impending doom. I'm like Henny-Penny in a straightjacket.
George. I've got to get me some George. Maybe I could look through the window of Circuit City or Best Buy at the plasma screens for sale. I could get a universal remote and change the channel to CNN from the parking lot. I wouldn't be able to hear him, but just to see his sniveling, smirking face and the worn out beady eyes would be enough. I already know what he is going to say anyway. "911, 911, 911, 911."
I have a dream. For some of you it would be the final nightmare, but for me it's a wet-dream of perpetual George.
You see I have this dream George will find a pretext to declare martial law and proclaim himself President for Life. Hmm, I can really sink my teeth into that one. Talk about a kid in a candy store. If George W. Bush was President for Life I'd feel like Jesus in a chariot of fire skywriting "hallelujah" across the firmament. As long as I know where George is I know where evil dwells. I am awash in light as George bathes in the darkness of heartless hypocrisy and clueless conceit. I was lost and through George I am found.
Shush, someone's coming. Oh, Jesus, they've got bloodhounds. They probably shoved a pair of my dirty socks up their noses. They're coming right for me...It's now or never.
I hear the calls of guards and the whimpering howls of the dogs as I make my break. I run and run and run. I need a safe-house, but I know there is no refuge for me. There is no resistance; no rebel alliance. There are only short-sighted, yellow-bellied, goody-two-shoed liberals who want Bush impeached, convicted and imprisoned for his crimes against humanity. They just don't understand the millions of souls who have been saved by George and the billions more souls who could be delivered into the light if we just let George be George.
The power of ignorant hate and mindless perfidy to illuminate loving intelligence and committed compassion is extraordinary. Addiction to George is simply Gandhian. Look at me run. George is giving me the strength to do this. I was winded and spent blocks ago. It is the high of George that keeps me going.
I realize there is one flaw to my selfish addiction.
George kills. George kills lots of innocent people, including many women and children. And for those lucky enough to escape George with their lives, they still carry deep scars for the rest of their years. It is a high price to pay for my redemption.
Cindy Sheehan's boy died for my salvation. And countless thousands of others.
And Cindy herself; she lost a son in a senseless, tragic and pointless war. But what does she have now? Like an alchemist she has transmuted her basest grief and anger into the pure white fire of truth and justice. The spirit of righteousness courses through her veins like the waters of a bubbling Olympian spring. She has George to thank for that.
Still, it's not fair. I know that. Sheehan would rather have her son back more than anything else in the world. George kills. To ponder the rivers of blood spawned by hate and ignorance is to court insanity. And the humans responsible in their complicit cooperation with evil should be punished. But justice can never be done on earth for the evils of stupid men. That is what faith is all about.
Luck is my on side. Someone was throwing out a bunch of clothes and left a trash-bag of them lying on the sidewalk for pickup. I rummage the bag and find a hot-pink Hooter's sweatshirt and a teal pair of Nike running shorts. I trade my smock for a costume of semi-normalcy and continue to walk toward the center of town.
I'm on the hunt for George. Where is the fucking bastard? Here Georgie, Georgie, Georgie. If I were a vampire hunter instead of a George addict I'd have a wooden stake and a silver bullet ready. But I'm no hero. I'm not even an anti-hero. I'm just a selfish George addict on the road to heaven's gate.
Maybe being a George addict is cheating. I don't care. Salvation is too important to risk on fairy tales and legend. Maybe Saint Peter will shake his in disgust and not look me in the eye, but he'll have to let me in.
And I'm sorry for all the wasted lives; the collateral damage of George. The price can never be repaid in human terms.
You know that feeling of a first kiss? It's like that. The deepest want and anticipation; the ecstasy of union, face-to-face with the object of your desire. George is like that.
I know what you're thinking. You think I'm crazy. George W. Bush is the opposite of a first kiss to you. George Bush is like French-kissing Satan. Revulsion is all you feel.
I get that.
You know, they say ecstasy can't be put into words. And it's true. I don't know how to make you understand my addiction to George. I guess my addiction to George makes Marat Sade's addicition to pain look like Paris Hilton's addiction to humiliation. Or something like that.
Anyway, I'm on the run from rehab. I'm on the streets looking for some George. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and I don't care it's an oncoming train. I'm like Neo in the final scene of the Matrix when he runs headlong into Agent Smith and blows him up from the inside out.
I'm looking for a fix; a big one. Come on George, bring it on.