Shirt-sleeves rolled up, W. finally landed in Hell yesterday and chuckled about his wild boozing days in "the great city" of N'Awlins. He was clearly moved. "You know, I'm going to fly out of here in a minute," he said on the runway at the New Orleans International Airport, "but I want you to know that I'm not going to forget what I've seen." Out of the cameras' range, and avoided by W., was a convoy of thousands of sick and dying people, some sprawled on the floor or dumped on baggage carousels at a makeshift M*A*S*H unit inside the terminal.
George Bush is the photo-op president. He is like a model they hired to play the president. He stands in the spot they tell him, he reads the words that scroll past on the teleprompter, and works the muscles in his face in an attempt to show sincerety.
But there is no there there! He is an empty suit. A boy playing at being president. He knows how to dress up but he does not know how to fill the shoes.
