Salon: The Bushies wrecked my party!

[Yo_Mama_Been_Loggin]

A mean guy named Dick ordered my guests around, some halfwit named George broke everything, and this Karl creep really befouled the air in my bathroom.

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By Sarah Rogers



Oct. 25, 2004 | You're the host of a cocktail party. It's for your friends and neighbors, and it's in your house, which has been passed down through generations in your family. You have laid out the food on your grandmother's china and poured the drinks into your great-grandmother's crystal. Guests now sit on your father's leather library chair and perch on the edge of your mother's velvet sofa. They admire the painting by your great-great-grandfather, and coo over the ceramic platter that your great-great-great-grandmother brought with her from Italy. They praise the perfect little hors d'oeuvres that you've spent all day making. You're glad that this has panned out, since your back hurts from crouching over the cutting board for 10 hours. The guests discuss how happy they are to live in this neighborhood: Such a nice place! Such nice people!

The doorbell rings. It's your new neighbor, George, and his friends, whom you warmly welcome. The other guests also stand up to greet them. After the most minimal of niceties, your new neighbor and his colleagues fan out. They gobble up all the hors d'oeuvres without chewing them, and slurp up the wine you've been storing for years. One of them single-handedly polishes off the nicely aged bottle of Bordeaux that your father passed onto you -- rather than drinking it early himself, he'd said, it was more important for someone else to have it when the time was right. Another of George's friends -- Donald? -- drops his full glass of red wine onto your great aunt's Persian carpet; the crystal shatters.

And still another one -- you think he was introduced as Karl -- locks himself in the bathroom for 10 minutes. When he opens the door, the foul smell of digested matter gusts into the living room. He strolls into the kitchen, and you follow him.

"Er, Karl," you say. "Could you turn on the fan? It's the switch on the left."

http://www.salon.com/opinion/feature/2004/10/25/bush_years/index.html