There are certain people in this country, mostly politicians, who would have us believe the former scenario. Mainly, I’m talking about the Bush Machine, which is exceedingly keen on advertising – or rather, propagandizing – notions of patriotism, nationalism, and all those other -isms that are willingly slurped up and taken seriously by millions of people across this great land of ours. These are people you cannot and should not trust under any circumstance if for no other reason than that they sold us a very dangerous image of the First Lady as a square, mentally stable housewife. Laura Bush cleans for her American President. Laura Bush changed shitty diapers when the sisters were too young to booze and whore themselves out to up-and-coming University Republicans. Laura Bush is a good American – just like yourselves, folks – all good Americans, all well-meaning individuals, and all ready and willing to sacrifice your pensions in the name of privatized investment.
I personally never believed the clapchap about Mrs. Bush in the first place, but it wasn’t until two or three days ago that I realized what really frightened me about her. Even now, I can’t remember what sort of shit-eating function she was shown attending with a stiff back and a blank smile more reminiscent of the Joker’s than Laura Ingalls Wilder’s frontier mother. It doesn’t matter, though, does it? Each political rally is the same as the last. The point is, I will never forget seeing her in that purple dress. I will never forget her blue eye shadow or her fake hair, nor will I easily erase the memory of all five layers of skin-colored base the makeup artists slathered on her face. Most of all, I will always remember those eyes.
They were not the eyes of your standard run-of-the-mill housewife, that’s for goddamned sure. They looked like eyes you might see peeking from behind a dumpster in some long-forgotten alleyway on Chicago’s South Side – the eyes of a hopeless doper completely amped on uppers and ready to pounce once you turn your back. She was crazed and frothing at the mouth, and she was digging in her purse trying to find the secret compartment where she hides her amphetamines – maybe even her meth. Although one would wonder what she’d be doing with that horrid shit. As the President’s wife, I’m sure she gets weekly shipments of the best cocaine money can by, and rightfully so. I’d be willing to bet she and George go way back in that regards. Hell…she was probably still somewhat normal the first time Curious George bent her over his dorm room bunk, sodomized her, and did a big, fat line off the small of her back.
But no more. Laura Bush does not strike me as naive in any way unless you’re criticizing her grasp of facts or human nature. As far as her personal habits are concerned, though, she is in total control. She will never be left wanting for chemical stimulants, and I’m fairly certain the usual pharmaceuticals most housewives settle for aren’t strong enough for her. It would take horse tranquilizers to bring her down, and even then, you’d better have another batch ready before you start binding her with zip cords.
The secret to the First Lady really is in the eyes. I cannot stress this enough, and now that I think back, I could be wrong about the whole drug addict thing. There is always the very distinct possibility that Laura Bush is not human. That’s right, folks. Watch her smile. Whereas a homo sapien sapiens’ smile will cause some alteration in the upper facial muscles, it seems anything above Laura’s lower lip remains completely unaffected when she shows those pearly crowns of hers. And I’d really hate to bring in some bogus pop culture reference here, but if you’ve ever seen Vincent D’Onofrio in Men in Black, you might know what I’m on about here. Laura might have harvested human skin and used it as a disguise because something just doesn’t fit correctly. In my mind, the possibility of her having acquired some sort of bio-mechanical camouflage is not entirely out of the question. I’m sure the longer I dwell on the subject, the more this notion will seem like a probability.
At this point, I don’t quite know how to wrap things up. The horrors continue to mount, and I think I might sleep with the light on tonight for fear Laura will sneak into my room with a vial full of pulverized Jimson Weed and force feed it to me while skewering my nipples with white-hot rebar spikes. Jesus Christ, the horror of it is almost too much to bear. This country has seen some weird shit over the last five years what with a dope-addled alien moving into the White House, a Vice President firing buckshot all over the goddamned place, and pretzels conspiring to assassinate the Commander-in-Chief. Yessir, it’s been one helluva ride. I’ve been queasy the whole time, but I didn’t throw up until I saw those eyes.
Kurtz was right.
Exterminate the brutes. Joseph Conrad