The Russian Prime Minister has declared Space Station Mir too old and decrepit to be useful anymore. Naturally, the space station will now begin confirmation hearings to serve on George W. Bush's cabinet sometime next week.
Bush leaned on Donald Rumsfeld to take time off from writing his memoirs of the Battle of Hastings to serve as Secretary of defense. Rumsfeld keeps pushing for that Star Wars Catapult Defense System, because he's afraid the North Koreans might have the crossbow.
And on Monday, movers went to the Governor's Mansion in Austin, Texas to transfer Bush's belongings to Washington. The move itself took very little time once workers discovered that Bush had nothing upstairs.
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but as a comedian, with George W. Bush coming into office, I feel like the owner of a hardware store before a hurricane. I hate to see it coming but I have to admit it's good for business.
I'll take my shots at Dubya, but I actually have high hopes for the next four years. I see George W. Bush working hard to keep the ambitions of big business and the military in check, and ensure that even the lowest job pays a dignified wage. I believe he'll erase the animus that has divided Washington, and bring both sides of the aisle together. I also happen to believe dogs can talk if you touch them in the right spot, and everyone watching me is happy with their body.
As much as I'm willing to give Bush a chance, I'm a little nervous about his intellectual capacity. I mean, at least Clinton had his dick to think with.
And Clinton did a lot of thinking. If I were Bush, the first day I took over, I'd have a convoy of six Rug Doctor trucks come chugging through the main entrance of the White House, park right in front of the TV cameras, and start dragging their steam-cleaning hoses through the Oval Office door. Well, come on. It's got to be like buying Bob Guccione's mattress at a yard sale.
You can say what you want about Bush, but he's going to surround himself with people who are so experienced that they aren't gonna let him eat at the grown-up table for a long time.
And you can't understand the great and powerful Bush without peeking behind the curtain at the clever bald man pulling all the levers: Vice President Dick "It's Probably Just Gas" Cheney. Now, Cheney's heartbeat skips more than Richard Simmons on his way to a Ricky Martin concert. You know, the job of V.P. doesn't give you that much to do, so it would be a shame if the very first state funeral he attended was his own. But Cheney is also smart, crafty and persuasive, so give George credit for putting him on the team. Most presidential candidates try to pick a running mate who won't outshine them, but who would that be for Bush? Maybe Wilson the volleyball from the movie "Cast Away."
Let's put Bush's cabinet under the microscope, or, as he calls it, "the little-stuff-to-big-stuff thingy."
Now, we do need to cut Bush some slack on Linda Chavez. How could he possibly know the woman had a Guatemalan slave? Chavez got out quickly. I guess she felt that if people had a hard time with the illegal alien maid, they might respond even more negatively to the 30 Haitians assembling "Salad Shooters" in her basement.
Attorney General nominee John Ashcroft will not be able to fill Janet Reno's shoes, but then again neither could Shaquille ONeill. But what I don't understand is how Ashcroft can be so pro-Death Penalty when he lost his last election bid to Mel Carnahan, a dead guy. What's really scary is that most people thought Carnahan won the debates, too.
National Security Advisor nominee Condoleezza Rice has often been described as W.'s "foreign policy tutor". Oh, yeah, I love the sound of that. It's nice to know we're signing our nuclear arsenal over to a man who needs after-school help. Don't you think the fact that he needs a tutor ought to be raising more eyebrows than Eminem teaching kindergarten on the planet Vulcan?
Secretary of Health and Human Services nominee Tommy Thompson says his top priorities include overhauling social security and Medicare as well as fixing his stupid name. Hey, what kinda guy makes it past forty with a "y" on the end of his first name? Hey, Tommy Thompson, nice to meet you, you loser fuck, I'm Denny Dennerson.
For Secretary of State, Bush chose Colin Powell. Okay, no complaints there. Nice to see that Bush picked a minority. After all, a minority picked him.
All in all, George W. Bush has to have had the same reaction that I did after I got the job on Monday Night Football. Hey, what in the hell happened here? I only applied for the job because I never thought they would actually give it to me. So my advice, George, is take your lumps and jump in there. For me it was the best thing I ever did, next to this show on HBO of course. Man, it's hard kissing two asses at once.
You know, in the end, it's hard to know what history will make of the second Bush presidency. Will it be regarded as an aberration in the electoral process? A surprisingly capable underdog effort? Maybe just a placeholder in the strange but easy-to-remember Presidential sequence "Bush-Clinton-Bush-Clinton." Whatever is to be, there's one thing we know: It's time for Daddy's little boy to grow up. George W. Bush's seemingly endless supply of free passes is now officially drier than any of the oilwells he once managed. Well, I, for one, wish him the best.
Now, I don't pretend to know anything about the Machiavellian intricacies of politics, the " one - hand - washes - the - other - that - scratches - the - back - that - spanks - the - monkey - that - gives - the - reacharound - " to whomever. All I know is, with the Nasdaq numbers acting like they're in a fight scene from "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" and the once-madly-thriving economy now teetering like Forrest Whitaker in a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos, if I were Dubya, the first thing I'd do when I set foot in the White House, before I unpacked the video golf game, before I started crank-calling my old frat brothers, before I snuck up behind Dick Cheney and popped an inflated paper bag, the first thing I'd do is get my ass on the phone and send Alan Greenspan a four-year supply of Omaha fucking steaks.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.