A dream I had (and an excuse to add belated Thailand photos)

With how we sentenced Zacarias Moussaoui to watching cable in isolation for the rest of his life, a very appropriate judgment given his heretical anti-Americanism, I was thinking about the best way to see out our cavalier president after we finally give him the boot. Here is my proposal for a Greek Tartarian version of George Bush's hell, and hence, my idea of justified redemption:

Imagine a convention of the fattest owners of the most lucrative businesses in America. I'm talking Haliburton and prelapsian Enron, logging and tabacco tycoons, etc...everyone is present. Their hands are strangling their money so tight-fistedly that sweat drips down their foreheads and stains $10,000 suits. Then the politicians enter. Everyone begins swapping cards and making deals with the utmost formality and familiarity. Exchanges are made so amicably that no one with an outside view would guess that they were witnessing some of the dirties and most secretive deals taking place. Headhunters and cannibals have so much more integrity and honesty––these slave traders find it necessary to label everything the opposite of what it is. Outsourcing sounds so harmless, like a leisurely weekend trip to the lake and/or beach house (or maybe we could take the private jet and do both?). Who knew that it would enslave and cripple a foreign country while destablizing the local economy, education, and employment?
So these deals continue and become more refined, but when the highest power enters the room, W, the letter, the icon, the name or our future, he's occluded by a eight-hundred pounds of human eclipse. The truth of the yokozuna (high ranking sumo wrestler) does not bend for any price. When Bushie tries to outflank his opponent by scurrying around and outside of the circumfrence of ozumo's reach, the planet of flesh slide across with surprising agility. Any direction Bush tries to move is block by a mountain. Any berth is quickly reversed and diminished. Whenever W's craven legs fail and he stumbles onto the flapping tongue-pink carpet rolled out as a runway for his entrence, the yokozuna also take a short rest––on Bush's head. And for those who do now know, the yokozuna is often so wide that he cannot reach his own rear end, and after releiving himself the ozuma needs an ass-wiping assistant. Well, as every president in American history has worn a white powder wig, so does Lord Bush. And in dire times when the yokozuna needs assistance, W is thankful that this is my dream and that he has that powder wig handy.
So like the Wiley Coyote ever-chasing the Roadrunner, for eternity Bush endlessly struggles to gain access to the pampered convention while being hounded by a yokozuna wrestler, who sometimes sits on and sometimes defecates on the poor icon. Thus he is eternally defeated by his own desire and intemperance of a lustful heart.

I want to conclude with a happier image, however, for although many stinky things exist inside and out of our respective countries and governments, certain sustaining beliefs can outlast the ruins of our "mind-forged manacles." Thresholds exist even where you think they may not as long as you leave the door open.


Temple in Ayutthaya (Old Capital of Siam and Thailand between 14th and 19th centuries) located about one-hour north of Bangkok.
Southern Thailand, somewhere between Krabi and Khao Phanom Bencha National Park on the back of our five-dollar motorcycle.
Take a gander––this is the D.C. in a few hundred years.
We have a lot in common. So serene, so sunny.
Time-Warner Square
I have no smart-ass comment, she's too cute.
Who knew aiports could be so fun at two am?
Now gimme my pot-o-gold ye leperchaun! (Sorry, I couldn't bring myself to say, "Kiss me, I'm Irish." Who came up with that one anyway? Are the Irish that much more attractive? Why not kiss me, I'm horny, or kiss me, I'll give you five dollars? Those sound more reasonable. What the hell, I'm pretty too, don't I deserve kisses. Dammit, Dan, you broke my heart!)
This is my door