December 06, 2006
(Crossposted at The Daily Kos.)
In Which I Challenge Dubya to Three Rounds
President George W. Bush
The White House
Dear Mr. President,
I hereby publicly challenge to you to a boxing match, three rounds of two minutes, to be conducted according to the rules of USA Boxing (Master Division), with a referee, judges, ring physician, the standard protective equipment, and any medical precautions you may feel necessary. This is not a joke or a bluff. I will meet you at any time, at any place, and under any conditions you stipulate, as long as the rules for a fair match apply.
And let me tell you something, Mr. President, you're going down in one. Here's how I'm gonna knock you out: I'll create an opening with a combination jab, then stun you with a left uppercut, and then, here it comes, the RIGHT HOOK, WHAM, and that's what's gonna wipe the frat-boy smirk clean off your face. You'll be out before you hit the mat.
One thing, Mr. President, we'll need to agree on who the referee and judges are, and I'll need to be able to check out their credentials ahead of time. The problem, you see, is that you have a history of cheating.
You might be inclined to turn down my challenge on the grounds that you're 18 years my elder (which in fact would require an exception to one of the rules of the Master Division), but I'll concede that you may nevertheless have some advantages. I just started to learn boxing earlier this year, over fourty years old, and I don't have any match experience yet. You'll be my first real opponent in the ring. I'm still recovering from recent knee surgery, I smoke and drink too much, and I'm not in the shape yet. If you do to make it to three rounds, you've got your chance. I'm afraid that, unlike you, I can't take twenty weeks off every year for mountain-biking vacations.
And if it gives you some incentive, consider that I'm just the kind of back-talking lefty that gets your hot little temper going. I'm you're big chance, chump, now you finally get to take a swing at everyone who ever who told you straight out what a jackass you are. Let's not kid ourselves, Mr. Dubya, we all know what gets your dander up, whenever you get out of the White House and away from all of your simpering yes-men, out in the real world where everyone knows you're a knucklehead and says so right to your face. Remember when you told a citizen in Philadelphia on the 4th of July that you don't care what he thinks? Remember how you were ready to haul off on John Kerry for telling everybody on TV how much you suck, while you were just ten feet away from him? Remember how you felt when you sat there watching Stephen Colbert making you look like a pluperfect peckerhead? Remember all the politicians, reporters, and plain-ol' Americans you've wanted to flip off for getting too uppity?
And remember Jim Webb last week, who wouldn't kiss your ass just because you think you're the shithead-in-chief? Tell us the truth, Dubya, didn't you almost wet your pants when you noticed you were dealing with a real man, a decorated Marine whose son almost got killed in your little brainfart of a war, who gave it right back to you when you decided to shoot off your smart mouth? Aren't you glad he didn't follow his impulse and pop you off? Because then the Secret Service would have been all over him, and you'd have had to run away like a precious little prince while the real tough guys take up the fight, when in fact you'd have wanted to sock him right back, right? Well here I am, tough guy, think of me as Webb, Kerry, Colbert, Michael Moore and every other insubordinate smartass you've wanted to punch all rolled into one. Give it your best shot.
C'mon, Genius, aren't you dying to bust my chops? Because it is my considered opinion, Mr. President, that you are a shit-for-brains loser, and that you'd be a ridiculous clown if it weren't for all the people who are either dead or living in misery thanks to you and the mush between your ears. I'm smarter than you and we both know it, and you can't stand it, can you? Wanna throw another one of your temper tantrums, Bunky? Then put on the gloves, face me in the ring and have at it.
I think you should take the challenge, Mr. President; unless of course you're too scared. In the immortal words of Randle P. McMurphy, meet me man to man, or you're a yaller skunk and better be outta town by sunset.
Back when I was in high school, whenever the teachers caught some guys fighting, they said that if they really want to settle their differences that way, they ought to get the gloves and get into the ring, and then they'll really find out what it means to take somebody on. No one ever took them up on it back then, and I'm sorry they didn't, because it would have been a superb learning experience, channeling the impulse to aggression into fair and controlled competition, the toughest, most exhilarating sport I've ever attempted. You and I have ample reason to settle the score, Mr. President, after all the years of you questioning the patriotism and courage of Americans who disagree with you, disparaging the bravery of decorated war veterans while you yourself took a cushy rich-boy assignment in the Air National Guard (and even skipped out on that), and especially after all of the people you've sent off to be killed, maimed and tortured as if they were your stuffed animals. If we were in high school, I'd be ready to push your face into a locker; as a middle-aged amateur boxer, I'm ready to meet you in the ring.
I'm making this challenge because I think you're strictly chickenshit, a pathetic little wimp, a sorry little pissant, and I want to prove it to you, personally. You're just like your blubbery Daddy, who nearly went to bawling in front of a bunch of foreigners a couple of weeks ago because they said mean things about his precious little boy. Your Dad really is a wimp, and he was a lousy President, but he was a damn sight better at it than you'll ever be. And don't ever forget, Junior, if it weren't for your Dad, no one ever would have known who the hell you are.
Oh, I know that you and your boyfriends in the White House think you're the toughest dudes on the ranch. We've seen your macho routine all these years, acting like you're the hard-ass and everyone else is a wuss. You guys got all turned on when Maureen Dowd was drooling about Rummy as a "square-jawed man's man" and an "out-of-control macho", didn't you? You've fooled a lot of people for a long time with your flightsuit and your cowboy costume; but as we all learned, sooner or later, about every bully on the school playground, your whole act is just a show, a cover for little boys who deep down inside are just scared little crybabies who can dish it out but can't take it.
What kind of men are you really, you and "Little" Dick Cheney, that dyspeptic old loser Rumsfeld, your fat friend Rove, and all of the chickenshit chickenhawk wingnut pundits and bloggers that cheer you on all the time? A bunch of adolescent, towel-snapping frat boys if you ask me, a herd of yaller skunks and yellow elephants, draft-dodging little cowards who are more than happy to send other young people off to die for the sake their whacked-out fantasies, but too greedy and above all too terrified to sacrifice anything if it means paying the bill, getting their fingers cut or their brains blown out.
I think that the Rude Pundit has correctly diagnosed the problem that you and your faux-macho conservative friends have as the Tiny Dick Syndrome: You're a bunch of puny little men with unusually small penises, driven to compensate for your pencil dicks with florid displays of conspicuous tough-guy horseshit. Us guys have all seen this type in the locker room, men with the sort of baby weiners that belong on a four-year-old, in jarring and incongruous contrast with the enormous gut billowing forth above it. But the one thing I disagree with the Rude One about is the Veep, "Little" Dick, because I think he's got it worst of all; I'm guessing that Lynne Cheney keeps an electron microscope in the bedroom.
Now I suppose some whiny pundits and batshit crazy wingnut bloggers would think that my challenge is "boorish", or even a threat of violence against the President of the United States. Chances are that someone at the Secret Service is at least checking this diary out for danger signs (hi guys!). Don't worry, folks, what you're reading is nothing more or less than what it looks like, a challenge to a fair match, on equal terms, in the ancient and honorable sport of boxing. I'm not going to try to maim or assassinate you, Mr. President; what I'm going to do is open you up with the combination jab, stun you with the left uppercut, and then WHAM, knock you flat with the right hook. You can have the entire ER from Bethesda Naval Hospital there to fix up your pretty face when I'm done with you, if it makes you feel better.
And you know, we can do this without anybody watching. Just you, me, the referee, the judges, the ringside physician, and the two stone-faced Secret Service agents who'll never talk. In the basement of the White House, no audience, no cameras, no reporters, no nothing. If you prefer, I'll even swear to secrecy about how it went, or even about whether the match took place at all, I honestly don't care. This is just between you and me, we'll find out whether your tough cowboy act is nothing but talk. How about it, Mr. President? Put 'em up or shut it up.