|
February
19, 2002
Prudence
Crowther
Did
Someone Say "Chador"?
Ramzi
Kysia
Caught
in the Iraqi DMZ
February
18, 2002
Ron Jacobs
The
US and Iran
George
Lewandowski
Empire
in Declline
Lenni
Brenner
Life
and Death of a Folk Hero
February
17, 2002
Robert
Fisk
Lost
in a Pit of Desperation
February
16, 2002
Phillip
Cryan
Colombia
in War Time
February
15, 2002
C.G. Estabrook
From
New York to Porto Alegre
Robert
O'Brien
The
View from Porto Alegre
Mokhiber/Weissman
Resisting
the Assassins
February
14, 2002
Levy and
Easton
Ante
Pavelic
Real Butcher of the Balkans
Joan Claybrook
Dear
Jeb Bush,
About You and Enron
John Chuckman
Time
for a Woman Prez
Alexander
Cockburn
Banning
the Koran
February
13, 2002
Sen. Russ
Feingold
War
Powers and
the War on Terror
Tom Turnipseed
Bush's
Folly
George
Monbiot
American
Imperialism
February
12, 2002
Uri Avnery
The
Great Game:
Oil, Sharon and Iran
Tommy
Ates
Black
Land Loss
February
11, 2002
Walt Brasch
The
Synergizing of America
John Troyer
Enron's
Deep Throat?
February
9, 2002
John Blair
Criticize
Cheney, Go to Jail
February
8, 2002
CounterPunch
Wire
Ashcroft
the Bigot
Molly
Secours
Racism
and Real Estate
Wole Akande
World
Economic Forum:
The Aftermath
Cockburn/St.
Clair
Dita
Sari Tells Reebok
to "Shove It"
February
7, 2002
Patrick
Cockburn
Taliban's
War on Chess
John Chuckman
Howdee,
Dick!
Tariq
Ali
Mullahs
and Heretics
February
6, 2002
Amira
Hass
On
the Edge of the
Non-Violent Demonstrations
Vivian
Berger
Sentenced
to Rape
Vladimir Georgiyev
Russian Intelligence:
War on Iraq Begins in Sept.
Tom Turnipseed
"Axis
of Evil" a Cover for Corporate Corruption?
David
Vest
The
Enron Creature
February
5, 2002
Norman
Madarasz
Dispatch
from Pôrto Alegre
Tom Malinowski
What
to do with
Our "Detainees"?
Dita Sari
Why
I Rejected the
Reebok Human Rights Award
A Photographic Journal of Life
in an Afghan Refugee Camp
By Judith Mann
Resources:
100s of Links
About 9/11
CounterPunch:
Complete
Coverage of 9/11 and Its Aftermath
Five
Days That
Shook The World:
Seattle and Beyond
By Alexander
Cockburn
and Jeffrey St. Clair
Photos by Allan Sekula
(Click Here to Order from CounterPunch
Online at 20% Off Amazon.com's price!)
INSIDE
EXCLUSIVE
TO
COUNTERPUNCH
SUBSCRIBERS
Published Oct. 15, 2001
8-Page Special Issue
War Diary
CIA's Assassination Plan a History of
Torture in US Prisons
bin Laden and Bush
Business Connections
Aisha Ikramuddin on the Hidden Hype
of US Food Bombs
Peter Linebaugh on
Pakistan
Christopher Hitchens' Love for Mrs. Thatcher
Jiang Zemin Tells Bush:
Nuke 'Em
Search
CounterPunch
Read Whiteout and Find Out
How the CIA's Backing of the Mujahideen Created the World's Most
Robust Heroin Market and Helped to Finance the Rise of the Taliban
and Osama bin Laden
Whiteout:
CIA, Drugs & the
Press
by Alexander
Cockburn
and Jeffrey St. Clair
The New Crusade:
America's War on Terrorism
By Rahul Mahajan
The Memphis Blues Again:
Six Decades of Memphis Music Photographs
Photos by Ernest Withers
Text by Daniel Wolff
The New Intifada:
Resisting Israel's Apartheid
Edited by Roane Carey
A Pocket Guide to
Environmental Bad Guys
by James Ridgeway
and Jeffrey St. Clair
The
Phoenix Program
by Douglas Valentine
Al Gore:
A User's Manual
by Cockburn
and St. Clair
Buy
This Explosive
New Book at an
Amazing Discount!
Reviews of Gore:
a User's Manual
|
February 19,
2002
The Devil and Georgie Bush
By John Chuckman
George Bush sits quietly at his desk in the Oval
Office. Suddenly, with a puff of acrid, yellow smoke, a dark
figure appears at his shoulder, arrogantly leaning an elbow
against the back corner of the big leather chair. He wears a
soot-stained stovepipe hat, a rumpled, dusty suit, and his whiskered,
rather cherubic face has an almost benign smile as he gazes
down.
"Ahem, ah, Mr. President, I do believe
we have some business?"
Although he immediately recognizes the
figure, the President is astonished at this sudden appearance.
With his face drained of color, he reaches instinctively for
the hidden buzzer to the Secret Service at the edge of his desk.
"Mr. President, all those gadgets
have been disabled. Surely, by now, you have more respect for
my powers than that?
"Oh," with a rude little chuckle,
"and until we've transacted our business, no one will be
able to come through the door."
"Mr. Scratch, I meant no disrespec'..."
"I'm sure, Mr. President."
"It's what they all taught me to
do if anyone's here, ya know, without an appointment an' all..."
"Yes, quite, Mr. President. Now,
about our business..."
"But ain't there more'an two years
left on ma contract?"
"Ah, indeed, two years, one month,
eleven days, and fifty-four minutes, to be exact." The
dark figure reaches out, and, again with a sulphurous little
puff of smoke, a sheet of paper appears in his hand. He reaches
down and waves it in front of the President's face.
"Perhaps, you would care to review
the terms, Mr. President?"
"I'm sure you're right, Mr. Scratch,
you're mighty careful 'bout these things."
"Careful, indeed, Mr. President,
which brings me to the point of my little visit. As you know,
the original contract was for seven years."
The President, his face withered and
frightened, mechanically shakes his head in agreement.
"And then there was the matter of
an extension we negotiated?"
The President again shakes his head.
"And I trust there's no disagreement
about the party of the second part," with another gruff
chuckle, "that's me, having met fully all terms agreed?"
Still another doleful shake of the head.
"It says here, 'One George W. Bush,
having succeeded at virtually nothing in his adult lifetime,
except getting into a whole lot of embarrassing trouble, fighting
with his family, and consuming inordinate amounts of alcohol,
in return for certain services, specified below, promises his
immortal soul to the said Mr. Scratch,' that is," chuckle,
chuckle, "yours truly."
Here the figure makes a slight flourish,
briefly doffing his hat and creating a small cloud of soot.
"Services rendered in return,"
clearing his throat, "Ah, just summarizing here, Mr. President,
include making a killing on a baseball team, becoming governor
of Texas, and in general having gained recognition for turning
around a worthless life."
The figure looks down at the President
with a somewhat twisted smile.
"Yielding you, I might add, boundless
goodwill from legions of pious-fraud fundamentalists. Is that
not right, Mr. President?"
Again, almost like a sleepwalker responding
to unseen voices, the President shakes his head.
"The extension to the contract assured
your becoming - you'll note, Mr. President, the very careful
language about 'becoming,' with nothing said about 'being elected'
- President of the United States."
Another dull shake of the head.
"Well, it doesn't allow for a second
term, now does it, Mr. President?"
"Mr. Scratch, I jus' reckoned when
ya consider the kinda president I been..."
"You mean loosing the forces of
war, ignorance, and misery upon the world?"
"Why, sure, ain't I done a good
job on that?"
"Agreed, Mr. President, but I wouldn't
expect anything else of a man who's made the kind of bargain
you have.
"You'll recall, when we negotiated
the extension, that you wanted credit for all the prisoners
executed in Texas. And all the slimy business deals you winked
at, defrauding all kinds of decent folks. I admit such activity
keeps good trade coming my way, but, strictly speaking, Mr.
President, they just aren't part of our terms."
"But look'it the stuff we're doin'.
We're redesignin' the country. Givin' it back to the folks what
owns it, an' armin' 'em to the teeth so's they kin keep it.
Ya can't go makin' omelets like that without breakin' a mighty
heap of eggs. Why, I kin guarantee it'll mean years of misery
for all them losers out there."
"Again, Mr. President, I hate to
be like one of your heartless corporate contributors, but that's
just not part of our deal. No, no, what you do with the office
I gave you is up to you."
"But surely, Mr. Scratch, recognizin'
what a great job I'm doin' here for you, we could come to some
understandin' 'bout another li'le extension?"
"Well, I see what it is you want
from me, Mr. President, but it just fails me what you're offering
that I don't already have. The contract states clearly that
the immortal soul of one George W. Bush is to be delivered up
promptly at expiration...."
"Ain't there nothin' I kin do for
an extension, Mr. Scratch?"
"Ah, that desperate, pleading tone
does appeal to my better side. Come to think of it, there just
may be, Mr. President."
The President regains some color, and,
for the first time, there's some animation in his manner, "Yes,
yes, what is it?"
"Well, I'm not so sure you'll share
my enthusiasm for the idea."
Looking like a puppy about to be handed
a treat, "Mr. Scratch, I'll do jus' 'bout anythin', honest
to God!"
A severe, disapproving look flashes across
the dusty figure's face.
"Oh, I'm mighty sorry 'bout that,
but like I said, I'll do jus' 'bout anythin'."
"I do like your attitude, and I'll
note it in my little book.
"Mr. President, it does bother me
considerably that a mob of evangelical frauds in silk suits
- you know the ones I mean, there isn't one of them not headed
my way when their days of fleecing lonely folks watching television
are ended - get all the credit for your conversion. You and
I both know the truth of the matter. I would be strongly tempted,"
ha, ha, "to further extend your contract in return for
a promise to tell people the truth."
The President again turns ashen, "I
jus' don't see how that's possible, Mr. Scratch?"
"Oh, I don't insist you just go
and blurt it out. You may do it slowly over a period of time.
You may use all the arts of twisting the truth, so long as in
the end this one truth comes out. That doesn't seem like too
great a task for the caliber of people you've surrounded yourself
with."
"But, Mr. Scratch, how kin I tell
folks I made a deal with the devil?"
"Well, given your resources and
past record of achievement, I do not see an insurmountable barrier.
A lot of folks will have already guessed the truth. It's the
ones that roll around in church aisles babbling incoherently
or go to meetings to get slapped in the head to heal cancer
that are going to be a might difficult to reach. But these are
your people, and you are, after all, asking a great service
of me. I rarely extend contracts. Two extensions is almost
unheard of."
"But suit yourself, Mr. President.
Right now it's the only offer that would entice me," chuckle,
chuckle, "into so extraordinary an act."
"I, I jus' don't see..."
"As you please, Mr. President. I
will claim what's mine on the stroke of midnight two years,
one month, eleven days, and forty nine minutes, hence, unless,
of course, you see your way to improving my image with the public.
After all, it's no small miracle I've worked in your case. People
just might look at me in a whole new light if they only knew
the truth."
"But...but..."
"I'll leave it at that, Mr. President.
You can let me know anytime right up until expiration. Just
snap your fingers twice and consider it done for a second term."
The dark figure instantly disappears
in another puff of acrid smoke.
John Chuckman
lives in Ontario and writes for YellowTimes.
He encourages your comments: jchuckman@YellowTimes.ORG
|