Not saying we shouldn’t help the people of Syria. Not saying we shouldn’t help the people of North Korea. Not saying we shouldn’t help the people of Dallas, Texas.
I’m saying we can’t afford to.
Dad always said to me, “How can you help other people when you can’t help yourself?” Dad always said this to me when I was living in New York City, going to school, letting all of my friends crash on my floor, a floor Dad paid for.
Dad paid the rent.
He could afford to pay the rent. He could afford to send me to school. But I couldn’t distinguish between what was his and what was mine, the classic blunder of a spoiled child.
I was a spoiled child, a brat.
When you declare war and cut taxes, you’re a brat. When you declare a second war and cut taxes, calling tax cuts “Your Due,” you’re a brat. In which case, you don’t deserve a presidential library; you deserve a war crimes tribunal.
George W. Bush inherited a surplus. He squandered it. George W. Bush inherited peace. He squandered it. George W. Bush inherited prosperity. He squandered it.
Watching as he choked on tears instead of a pretzel, I couldn’t help but wonder where that guy was in the White House. I saw those tears as “The Cry For Help” from the soul of a brat, longing to be held accountable, longing to be told “No,” longing to be scolded for throwing a tantrum on the world stage, longing for a Time Out.
Put Down The Cookie, Dubya, No Means No War!
George W. Bush has retreated from the world stage. George W. Bush has retreated from the world of politics. Like a spoiled rotten child, George W. Bush has retreated into still lifes, portraiture and painting a world where the certainty of the worldview is indisputable once the paint dries.