G.W. Bush
The White House
Washington, D.C. 20006
Dear Mr. President:
Enough is enough. I thought nothing could be more miserable than the years I spent at Ben Franklin Middle School, but your presidency is proving to be worse than level five acne, doing a term paper on The Scarlet Letter, and trying unsuccessfully for three years in a fucking row to get a date with Melissa Hendstetter, all rolled into one.
I'll admit it, I never liked you and didn't vote for you. For one thing, the way you walk reminds me of Eugene our neighbor who also walks like he has his underwear bunched up in his ass. And dude, I know how it is to be strung out and all, but that performance of yours during the debates where you like stared into space for five minutes was a no-brainer for me. I knew where you were coming from there, and I could sympathize up to a point. I did that once in an interview down at Town & Country Foodland. I did NOT get the bag boy job, and man, you should not have nabbed the White House gig, I think we both know that.
But some people in my family did vote for you, and they are pissed. Frankly, when you have lost my father, you have fucked up royally. He is a guy who would vote for a toaster if it was a Republican. But he is also -- how do you guys put it -- a fiscal conservative -- I mean, this is a man who bought me shoes two sizes too big when I was in elementary school on the presumption I'd "grow into them." These days he is not happy about the deficit, especially when he gets those daily e-mails from Aunt Edith, who has voted Democratic in every election since I think Truman. Between that and his job being sent to India (and the fact that gramps will be moving in with us because of some insurance snafu business), he is spitting mad. Sure, you were once perhaps that guy he would have had a beer with down at the Dew Drop Inn. Lately he has taken to calling you "that dumbass cheerleader." Between you and me, I think this is a bad sign.
Sure, we're pretty simple people and all, but frankly my mother thinks we ought to be listening in to YOUR phone conversations. She said she would like to interrupt on occasion to give you some damned advice (which she is a friggin expert at, I can vouch for her there). At this point, she believes you "couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel." This sentiment is taking a rather strong hold over here. I gotta tell you, I'm pretty sure my Mom would rather watch non-stop reruns of Fahrenheit 911 than listen to you on TV or see pictures of you holding hands with Prince Howdy Doody (or whatever his name is)(by the way, that was something even I could have told you was totally dumbass -- not cool, dude).
I may be living in my parents basement in Bumfuck, Indiana, but even I can see that you are not -- as the vice principal used to tell me -- working up to your potential. Then again, maybe you are, which is a really scary thought and frankly one I have had on more than one occasion. Everyone is arguing over here, whether it's about my cousin Joe who is in the Army (and totally regrets it, as he writes that this is some massively fucked up shit going down in Iraq), Medicare D for gramps, the huge debt, your totally halfass staff, and even New Orleans which my mother hoped to see one day when she and Dad retire. Naturally, every time you start with that Social Security bullshit, they get upset, too. They don't feel like they're living in America anymore and neither do a lot of their friends.
I just wanted to write to you, man to man, and tell you how close you are to pissing off the majority of people in this country. I wouldn't have a beer with you even if you were buying all night, and considering my present circumstances, that's saying something. Maybe you could like, fall off your bike (you know what I mean) and have a coma or amnesia. Make sure it's a tandem and take Cheney with you. Just leave and stop the damage. I haven't been this miserable since middle school. And that totally sucks.