George Takes Us for a Ride

Let’s bring Bush’s ‘New Way Forward’ down to a level that we can all understand.

Do your best to forget the talking heads with their expert analysis, the interviews with the man on the street, the Senators and their Presidential strategies.
Imagine this, instead…..
George Bush is your teenage son.
America is the family’s old, but reliable station wagon.
Remember when George first got his license?
Remember how he made you take a picture of him at the registry, in front of the car, with the big ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner?
It was a big day. He was so excited. And admit it, you got swept up in all the excitement too: so much so that, later that same evening when he came to you with those shining eyes - asking if he could take the car to the lake, you consented.
Well, maybe not right away. You went through the motions.
“Who are you going with”, you asked?
“The Coalition of the Willing”, he said.
“What are you going to do”, you inquired?
“Spread Democracy”, he replied, with barely a hint of sarcasm.
“When are you going to be home”, you queried?
Early, George insisted.
Okay, you’d done the responsible thing, acted the concerned parent. Permission granted.
Then the call came at, what was it now, 12:45 a.m?
You heard a familiar voice telling you that they (funny how when there’s a problem it’s always ‘they’) ran out of gas, somewhere near Fallujah.
No biggie.
Oh, and they’ve had a small accident.
Alright.
Nothing to worry about, George insisted: he was just calling to let you know that they were going to be home a little later – and cost a few billion more, than he expected.
How thoughtful of him.
No biggie, you said again - out loud this time: but then why did you tell a bit of a white lie to your wife? No sense worrying her, you rationalized. No sense losing any sleep over this.
Damn, you told yourself as you settled back down in bed, I am so reasonable, so calm, such a good Dad. This was, after all, to be expected. George had never taken the car out before, by himself.
Time passed quickly. The car was repaired: they even added sheet metal to the undercarriage to protect against IED. It drove like new.
Your little white lie succeeded and, as if on cue, George was back.
This time the shine was gone from his eyes, replaced it seemed, by a sense of entitlement.
He wasn’t asking for permission.
He had to have the car again because, well, they were all going on this trip – and they were depending on him.
George made it seem as if to deny him, was un-patriotic.
So off George goes again and, the next thing you know you’re being woken up again, a little later than the last time. Only it isn’t George on the phone, it was someone from the New York Times.
This time it’s more than a little fender bender. This time America is off the road, in a ditch, and two of the boys that were with him are in the hospital.
But George says it’s not his fault. There was a mystery car – came out of nowhere, crossed over into their lane, and would have killed them all if he hadn’t acted decisively. Not only is it not his fault, he is saying, he’s a hero.
The beer in the car? Not his.
The other guy? Didn’t stop.
The final tally? It could have been worse (something tells you it will be): $20 billion for the car repairs, $10 billion for the lawyer to keep his record clean, and an undisclosed donation to the Religious Right.
When the next request for the car comes, you tell yourself, you are going to be ready.
You have developed a few ground rules that will have to be followed: a time-table, benchmarks.
Where, by the way, you plan to ask, is the money Iraq was supposed to contribute to the cost of insurance, George?
But George is playing outside the lines.
Instead of asking you directly – he implements a new strategy. He goes to your wife, and plays on her fears. If he doesn’t get the car, he warns her, his social life will be ruined, he won’t be able to work, and he’ll be at the mercy of that French kid with the Citroen, whenever he needs a ride.
You know she doesn’t know half the story. You know she is basing her decision on information that she was either denied, or that has been modified because of what you might call, national security.
You really should tell her about the accidents and the injuries, and the beer in the car, but then it would become clear that you had been withholding certain facts all along.
So you shrug and turn away, and off George goes.
You’re damn lucky this time.
George is thrown clear of the accident, and has hardly a scratch on him. America though, is a wreck – and the insurance won’t cover the costs. Thank God George wasn’t at the wheel. At least he says he wasn’t driving. It was The Generals.
Whoever is responsible, there is a price to pay this time: George is grounded indefinitely, a lame duck. But he has at least two more years under your roof. Can you really keep him grounded for that entire time?
After only a few weeks, he comes to you, looking tired, sounding apologetic: you don’t know why, but he is making you nervous.
He makes a long and rambling speech, most of which you’ve heard before. He talks about the ‘others’, the ‘mystery driver’, the Generals, and his regret at what happened to the family car.
“Mistakes have been made”, he tells you, adding that he takes full responsibility.
Not legal responsibility. Not financial responsibility. Full responsibility?
He’s learned his lesson.
Not your lesson, his lesson.
“I’m a changed man,” he says, “with a brand new plan: A New Way Forward!”
Things will be different this time, George promises, keeping his head down but holding out his hand with the palm turned up.
He wants the keys.