"Sten Schou" <rabin@planetwave.net> skrev i en meddelelse
news:435fdf2e$0$47072$edfadb0f@dread15.news.tele.dk...
> Da det må betragtes som en rimelig markant udtalelse, burde den have været
> vist på alverdens TV-stationer,hvilket jeg ikke mener den har været.
Forestiller du dig da at hver eneste møde Bush afholder bliver transmitteret
i TV?
I øvrigt er det en gammel nyhed efterhånden. Både CBS og CNN har også
tidligere været omkring den. Derudover har TV værter som Leno og Letterman
også gjort grin med det. Her er endnu én (som jeg synes er hylende morsom):
"What God really told Bush
"Psst! George! God here, taking a break from supervising the well-being of
eight billion troubled souls along with infinite galaxies of unimaginable
vastness to speak with you directly one more time because, well, you're
special, aren't you, George? Yes you are! Yes you are! OK, stop giggling. I
have more commands. Get off the damn hobbyhorse, George, and get a pen and a
notepad. No, not a crayon. I don't care if blue is your favori-- George! Get
a pen! OK? Good. Here we go:
"As you know, I'm not quite what everyone thinks. I am not all benevolence
and love and light. In fact, I have a downright dark side, mean and nasty
and cunning, and I want you, George, to continue to be my special right-hand
man. My special little guy. In fact, you shall help enact my wrath, Dubya.
Doesn't that sound fun?
"There are three things I love, George: war, revenge, suffering. Oh, and
smiting the heathens. OK, four things. And kickboxing. Five things. There
are five things I love, Dubya. You with me? And you and your demon monkeys
are enacting the first four admirably, George. Don't be shy, go ahead and
tell those Palestinian officials you were commanded by God to 'restore
peace' in the Middle East by bombing nearly defenseless, pip-squeak Iraq and
Afghanistan to smithereens. They love that stuff.
"But let's put the delicious war stuff aside for a moment. I need to round
out my oeuvre. Here's the plan: I'm gonna wreak some major havoc on one of
your poorest, most racially mixed, underfunded cities by hurling a massive
hurricane at them, flooding the place and killing hundreds of poor people
you don't even know exist because you thought they all lived somewhere in
Africa. It's all right, the biggest city, New Orleans, will be full of
Kerry-loving Democrats. Yeah, I thought you'd like that.
"Here's where you come in, George: When those rains come, I want you to sit
back for a few days, stay in the hammock in Crawford, have a lemonade, OK?
Let those dead bodies float around New Orleans like it was some remote
village in Nigeria. Then look completely baffled when everyone blames you
for your administration's miserable response. You'll take some flak for it,
but did I ever say serving me would be easy? Besides, people need to know
I'm still here, still angry, getting angrier. Don't worry, I'll make it up
to you. How does eternal damnati-- er, blessed sainthood sound? Good.
"OK, moving on. I have a secret, George. Here it is: I hate this me-forsaken
planet. All this so-called beauty, nature and the magic of science and the
poetry of cells -- you know what Earth is to me? High maintenance, that's
what. A massive pain in my hallowed butt. Growing all that food, blowing the
wind, churning the oceans -- it's exhausting. Plus my energy bills are
skyrocketing. Heating India and Turkey cost me 87 trillion last month alone.
What am I, made of money? Well yes, of course I am. But no matter. I'm sick
of it.
"Here's the plan, George: I want you to despoil, OK? Rivers and air and
lakes, wildlife preserves and pristine forests and salmon runs and bird
sanctuaries. Screw 'em, Dubya. Screw 'em all. I want you to be the worst
environmental president in 50 years, OK? Hell, make it 100. I want you to
roll back more environmental protections and do more damage to the place in
eight months than my bitch Ronnie Reagan did in eight years. Rape the joint
clean. Sell it all off to your cronies in big industry and help me hasten
Armageddon. Deal? Here's the truth, Dubya: Earth's a giant liver-flavored
Kong toy and you're a rabid terrier. Now, go get it, boy!
"Damn kids these days. Who needs so many? Why not send tens of thousands of
them off to fight your two brutal, unwinnable wars? Why not Vietnam 2.0?
Hell yes! Because if there's one thing I love more than useless wars,
George, it's thousands of mutilated soldiers coming home in body bags, all
draped in the pretty American flag. Twenty-one gun salute! For God and
country! Righteous.
"Speaking of uppity kids, I know my own brat Jesus came down here once and
mumbled some flower-child gibberish about turning the other cheek and not
killing anyone and doing unto others as you would have them do unto you and
yadda-yadda-yadda. That's what happens when you give the kids the car keys
and an unsupervised weekend, am I right? It's all complete bupkes, but I
don't have to tell you that, now do I?
"So here's what I want you to do, George. I want your demoralized military
shlubs to capture as many swarthy types as possible, whenever they raid an
Iraqi home or school or Afghan farm, and throw them all straight into a
military prison and let 'em rot and wait for months, years for a fair
hearing. Got it?
"Strip them naked! Stick electrodes on their genitals! Smear menstrual blood
on their faces! Beat 'em senseless! I don't care if they're innocent. I
sayeth unto you, innocence is overrated. Rape the boys, too. Then cover it
all up and blame it all on a poor, dim-witted female soldier from Kentucky
and shove her into prison for three years while all the honchos who
sanctioned the torture (hi, Rummy!) merely smirk and walk away. God sayeth
unto you all, rock on!
"I know, everyone says I'm made of pure love. Ha. Truth is, I'm made of
aluminum chloride and coal cinders and something I'm not quite sure about
but I think might be MSG. Oh yeah, and money. Fifties, mostly.
"I gotta run, George. But rest assured, I'll be back soon, with more ideas.
But there's one more thing you need to know, one thing you absolutely cannot
forget. Remember our Super Triple Secret, George? Pinky swear? Spit
handshake? Atta boy.
"Here it is: We both know who I really am, don't we? I know you secretly
admire my scaly red flesh, my shining black eyes, these bitchin' horns, the
breath worse than Rove's after his morning meal of seared panda hearts. Of
course you know the real God is more than a little disgusted by you and your
administration, right?
"Well, screw her. Typical woman, all benevolent and chthonic and
compassionate. We know who's really in charge of your nasty administration,
don't we, Dubya? Damned right. And I mean that literally. Keep your hands in
the fire, if you know what I mean. Now c'mere and give me a hot tongue kiss.
Sorry about charring the carpet. Sweet dreams."
http://www.afterdowningstreet.org/?q=node/3563